Hands free in every department...

Rather surreal experience in the toilets of a roadside cafe on the A17. I entered the gents and took up my position at one end of the urinals, quickly followed by an elderly chap who made something of a geriatric deal of unzipping then manhandling himself. Penis in hand and eventually pointing in the right direction, he said: "Now then chuck, how are you doing?" It wouldn't have been the first inappropriate conversation I'd had whilst urinating, although I wasn't sure if he was talking to me or was conversing with his member. It quickly became clear that it was neither; he was taking a phone call, hands free. "Just stopped off at a lovely little cafe near Holbeach. Been a smashing little break. I've got a sausage sandwich waiting for me..."

Alfresco...

First blog post in a while and the first alfresco blog post of 2010 - I'm bashing this out as I sit in the garden, accompanied by the beautiful sounds of birdsong, main road traffic and next door-but-one battering the hell out of pieces of wood and asking his wife for further instructions about 'the lily pots'. I'm killing time, as is the wont of this blog, before heading off to a learning institute to interview a prospective student. Quite how such power ends up in my hands is beyond me. I've been a bit busy of late, redrafting big play - which should see light of day by 'the autumn season' - tinkering with Humber Mouth 2010 piece Thinspiration and getting overly concerned about my contribution to Hull's Larkin25 celebrations. So, although I've just re-arrived, I better bugger off. Once I leave this garden I won't be returning home until 9.30pm tonight at the earliest due to work commitments. The very thought of that makes me feel exhausted.

Breaking the silence...

Been at the coal face of writing again so have mostly been saving my words for that. Do forgive my absence. Yesterday, between shifts, we went to the tail end of the Hull Carnival. I can only hope that the front end was absolutely ruddy marvellous because what we saw was a poor excuse for 'carnival'. More a big load of public sector and armed forces PR, the point of which was, well, PR, but there seemed to be no point nor reason , at all, to this event. Always keen to participate and support such stupid ideas, we visited it all, grabbed a few freebies (including a tin of mints from a small mound that seemed unduly neglected until, having asked a woman from NHS Hull if I could have them, I realised they had Erectile Dysfunction emblazoned upon the the tin. I have since taken pride and great delight in sharing them around) and mumbled at how pathetic it all was. The Lord alone knows what any visitors from beyond the city boundary made of it all although I would imagine they went back to their proper cities feeling very sorry for the poor unfortunates of Hull.

Having taken a shine to a coaster, pencil and ruler set made from recyclable material, I was forced to take a test - along with lots of ten year olds - that saw me sorting a bag of rubbish into the different coloured bins that we enjoy in Hull. I passed with flying colours but, dizzy from such glittering entertainment, forgot to pick up the pencil to complete the set that my efforts deserved. Note, in the pic above, the woman who appears to be snogging a green balloon. The only high point of the trip was a vintage car rally outside the Streetlife museum.

Other than that was glad to get home. Wonder how much cash Visit Hull & East Yorkshire will claim was spent by tourists during all this pap?

Morris dancing...

Down the cinema tonight to watch Four Lions. It's a comedy. I enjoyed it. When we were buying our tickets an eccentric man behind us in the queue took an interest in Sam's bag and the Jimi Hendrix artwork upon it. There was no suggestion that we may have been packing explosives. Instead, he gave sulky teenage son Sam some early Hendrix history, by way of an intense till-side lecture covering the Isley Brothers years. He followed this with some rather unnerving admiration for my large nachos. Thankfully he sat a few rows down from us so he didn't spoil the evening. Sam noticed as the end credits rolled that our new Hendrix expert friend had taken his shoes off to watch the film. Back to Morris, having read a host of reviews on my return, I'd say Tania Ahsan's take is amongst the most sensible reading.

Academic follow-up...

Nothing to do with me, I'm sure, but it has been brought to my attention that the typos on the Writers Academy blogpost of Friday May 7 have been corrected. Well done. Writers are obviously in safe hands when they come to you. The proof:

Hornsealed...

Went to Hornsea - a little town in Holderness - today. Very cold and the surf was up. Hornsea is not the most exciting place at the best of times and I admit to having a long-standing sour relationship with the place as I was dragged there most weekends to visit relatives. Today, Finn dropped his craved-for donut in the sand, we were blown all over the shop and it was mostly closed and boarded up:

Old pirates, yes...

Two hours in the park where I mostly played pirates with Finn. He made me say "Ship ahoy, Cap'n" about 300 times. As you can see, it made him smile.

Writers hackademy...

What a wonderful thing the BBC Writers Academy is. The scheme, for those that don't know, works as an apprenticeship for writers. As John Yorke, Controller, BBC Drama Production, has previously pointed out, "You can't teach writing." Which perfectly explains today's blog entry:

Timeless...

I don't currently own/wear a watch, went out without my mobile today so was, therefore, a bit clueless about the time when I exited a meeting and found myself walking through a busy shopping centre. I spot an old woman with a watch prominently displayed on her wrist.

"Do you have the time, please?"

"No."

"No? How can you not have the time? You've got a watch on your wrist and I can see it right there. There, look, your watch. You must have the time?"

"Oh, the time? I thought you were begging. It's ten past twelve."

It's only rock 'n' roll...

Vinyl, eh? Those were the days. I shipped all mine to me Mum's a couple or three years ago during one of our numerous house moves because I was sick of lugging the stuff around and, well, where's safer than the matriarch's residence? For a long time it all lived in her spare room (my old bedroom from 1982-1987). Then, understandably, she wanted to do something in there other than let me use it as a store room, so half of it moved up into the loft, the rest being allowed a stay of execution before it was moved somewhere else indoors. Then the second half was moved again: Ma phoned me one day to let me know it would be living in the shed but not to worry, it was dry in there and she would protect it anyway using various hi-tech covers. She phoned me recently to tell me there had been a leak. "Don't worry, though, your records were covered in a plastic sheet." Ah. Right. "Erm. Have you looked at them recently? Are they covered in mould?" "They're a little bit damp I think."

The leak might not have done for them but the condensation certainly had. Ah well. My attachment to them had waivered during, I think, the aforementioned house moves and, where this news might have destroyed my very being once-upon-a-time, I took a philosophical 'never mind, I've got Spotify and mp3s galore and I own every track I want to listen to in a different format anyway' view of the demise of my physical record collection, which I started amassing, what, over 30 years ago? Surely not. Shit. How old am I?

Dad, something of a collector of vinyl himself, took great pleasure in showing me how to take a record out of its inner liner and get it on the turntable without so much as a finger print ever getting on the thing and I did treat those black discs with tender love and care for so much of their lives. Now? Lots of sleeves are stuck together and the vinyl within looks as if it may sprout fungus within weeks. A previous me might have cried. But, as I failed miserably in my attempt to part Bob Dylan from the Rolling Stones, I thought the wreckage looked rather, well, delightful. I suppose I'll salvage what I can, transfer the few obscure titles to some electronic mumbo jumbo, maybe make a collage out of the least-damaged covers and then hurl the rest towards the council tip. Shame but, y'know, life goes on.

Spring clean...

In a fit of clichéd activity I felt inclined to bring some order to the bookshelves today. Following which, Finn returned to climbing up them. Here's a choice selection prior to them returning to their usual state of disorder/random things piled back on top:

Debaser...

"I'm not one of those clubbable writers. I find writers boring. Writing is kind of a debased pastime, it's one level above masturbation."

Nicola Barker

Full interview on The Guardian's website