Work, as it happens

Please see the larger version in the 'Work samples' page. Ta.

Limitless creative limitations

When I first heard myself described as a ‘creative type’, what made the most sense was how I met the group limitations, not the abilities. I still don’t get the abilities.

But I do get a strong irrational fear of any kind of system that I'm supposed to get my head round.  Even if it’s one I made myself during one of my heroic bouts of getting to grips with my phobia.

In other words, I’m a complete woss about filing. Today, I held my nose and plunged into my filing only to discover an unmentionable automobile

discrepancy that I’m now, treble-finger crossed, praying I’ll get away with. AKA I'm experiencing my nadir of terror. And that’s not even tax.

Tax. Even though I’m way too terrified to diddle any one, I have latent catholic paranoia, because I don’t actually get anything about numbers, and therefore I think I’m probably doing something wrong. I sweat and tremble as I go over my receipts, then live in total terror for my tax return.

But now, more seriously terrifying is than anything else is the fact that I find everything right where it should be. Even the things I’ve forgotten about. Contrary to my creative type casting, my filing seems to be pretty good.

Excuse me while I have an intervention about something.

Ever over done something a lot more than you thought, then a few months later become confronted by the consequences?

Probably.

Another proud specimen

Was that thing to do with manically planting potatoes?

Probably not.

It's been three years. First I used all the pots, and any single patch of bare ground I could find to plant spuds. The next year I promised everyone I would confine the crop to the pots and a big grow bag. So I got loads of extra pots. But I still couldn't stop myself sneaking in few extra here or there.

This year, I built up a whole new terrace for us to grow berries and flowers, while keeping the tatties to the grow bags and pots. But hey presto, there's lots of potatoes growing in the new terrace as well.  How did that happen?

The French call tatties 'pomme de terre'. But shouldn't we call apples 'potatoes in the sky'? 

They're so great though. Food, that instead of eating, you put into the ground and get more food, with next to no effort at all. Plus you get a big bushy bush, even flowers, then lots of ready to eat, stodgily, satisfyingly bring-home-the-bacon because I'm a manly gardener, harvest.

Obsession I know your name.  But I'm trying really hard to move on to something else. Promise.

Creating a great reputation takes a great deal of work

"That's Luke," his classmate whispered to her friends as we passed. "I really want to kill him."

Imagine the pokes, prods, well timed/right proximity farts. The leading right up the garden path. The messing about. Getting other people in trouble. All that work lowering the tone to make everything in life one big gag for a nine year old, at your expense.

I, for one, am quite impressed.

How to take out a 13 year old, bicycling

My oldest, 13, now wants to make his own way to his club rugby, a few miles from us at the Accies Rugby Club, Raeburn Place grounds.

So I dug out and fixed up his bike, and off we went together to show him the safe route.

All good stuff. Nearly ran over some dogs, startled a few old dears, made some seat adjustments.

Close to home though another, oncoming, 13 year old, busy noseying at other the peoples’ gardens, swerved into my path. We had a head-on collision to the sound of me yelling, “Watch out!”

“So sorry!” she sobbed into the arms of her father.

“Just stay on the left and look ahead, sweetheart. Shit happens.” I replied, probably less calmly than I thought.

“Ha, ha, ha, ha,” laughed my son loudly, without any trace of subtly. “Will it be this funny when I go on my own?”

How to impress your father

"Don't want to go to after school club tomorrow"

"Why?"

"There's a water fight."

"You don't want a water fight?"

"Yeah. It's really crap after what happened last year. Now you can't smash water balloons in people's faces, or aim for their heads at all."

He went up to bed in protest.

I dug the sploshtastic-mega-splosher out of the shed and fired it at his window.

He still wasn't completely convinced the next morning.  "Take your water gun, I'll call. If you want home, you can come home."

I called. He was at it for four hours.

"We won. Scotland and Trinity School Vs Victoria. We had this really cool wet pellet gun that really hurts."

I'm so proud, for some reason.

Edible or Ornamental?

"Once more your potatoes are crowding out my clementis."

"Aye, but I didn't know they were growing there. And you've another one of those plants there."

I know, I know. I've already handed in my form for a council allotment. But when I get it,  I don't want to grow anything on it. Instead,I want to cover every inch  with a huge, all-mod-cons-including-wide-screen-HD-telly-and-uber-sound, taking-the-piss-a-bit, shed.

Another day, another one liner

This what I do, when I'm not doing the all-round super-star thing:

How I avoided death in a rockstars' drug-fueled game of chicken gone wrong, using space rockets, explosion. Before I hit 30.

Any other survivors? Need to form a group?

One minute, destined to burn bright and die young in an orgy of out of control wildly unthought through choices. The next,  half way through a mortgage with a slightly sad obsession with lawn weeds.  Seriously, I'll kill the bastards.

Now, where did I put that acetylene, petrol and me box of matches?

You've got no style

It's an age thing. At 13 I had fluorescent socks, DM boots and drain pipe black jeans. Now I'm 40 and my eldest son is 13. So, to go one further, he has bought trousers that have a crotch near his ankles.  They've got a special lower gusset sown in.

"Pure banging," apparently. "I can actually run a bit. But I cannae do the splits much. Big deal. These will be my party trousers."

What parties?  

"He's changing," said my wife. "He no longer wants to spend his life in cottons" (read 'trackies'). Here is me hoping that this new sartorial self-interest might also include a bigger emphasis on personal hygiene. Like I know. But at least I do know that I'm not supposed to understand.

It's all just a load of old stones.

Motivating children is best tried before you run out of patience.

Yesterday, it was about 'Going just a bit further so you reach the top.' To a nine year old. Yeah right.

He was 'pre-motivated' too, for our hike o' the Pentlands. He had brought a toy gun and was wearing his authentic army webbing jacket thing with millions of pockets.

For a while, he was completely motivated in the wrong direction. He wanted to go and investigate the army's live firing range on the next door hill.  But before the last, largest and most imposing of the three hills on the walk, he completely lost his mojo.

"What's the point? It'll be like the others. It's not as if there's a castle at the top."

"It's not as if you're ever interested, when there is."

"Don't want a ruined castle. I want a real one. With a pie shop in it."

I took the hint and rummaged around for a sandwich. I also told him it would be a lot easier if he stopped trying to carry all those heavy stones up the hill with the hope of starting avalanches.

But he held my hand on the way down.

Been here, look. See the bullet holes.

If we're not careful, our children will grow up with only a fraction of the psychological problems that have so enriched our own lives.

I'm glad to say my children's boredom levels, during a tour of the royal Prussian china collection hit such a high peak, it may have scared them for life. So may have suddenly discovering a colony of German nudists in the Tiergarten, in Berlin. "Walk quickly, look straight ahead, and remember your British."

Battle scars and bullet holes were more their thing. "Look, we've been to this bit playing World at War." What fun, memories.

The improving blog, blog

People plan and reflect for eons over the best and correct way to bring their on-line persona out into existence. Their big reveal; their "Look people, this is me" moment.

I haven't. I'm doing it on the job, as it were. So here goes.

Welcome to the copywriter blog. The writer blog. The Dad blog. Most obviously, the way too unemployed blog. The blog my wife told me I should write, blog. The intensely over written by a bloody typical copywriter blog.

The will probably slack off later blog.

Later? Ha. I'm writing this intro, with a beer in a beautiful sunshine on Leith day.

The promise I'll get off my bum and write something useful tomorrow blog.

Sent from my iPhone