Stop that - you'll brake it.

This evening I did something that I have wanted to do for as long as I can remember.  Ever since I saw someone on TV letting a little bird go, I have wanted to do the same thing.  Swinging my arms up and opening my hands as, in a flurry of feathers, the little creature flies off to freedom.  It's a thing of beauty.  Tonight, a little collared dove got into the chicken's little fenced off area and couldn't get out.  I went in to catch it - and catch it I did.  I was surprised - I thought it would just find a way out and be done with it.  But I caught it and went into the open and gracefully chucked it skywards.  I have only had one opportunity to do such a thing before.  I caught a little bird in Pizza Hut when I worked there.  I put it in a little wings box (insert joke or amusing observation here), and went home.  Upon entering the house, I proceeded to look around for our cat.  Unless the reason for this is not too clear, most cats like to eat - if not, kill - birds.  I did not want this bird to be eaten or killed.  Long story short, I bury a dead bird at the end of this anecdote.

I bought another Moleskine book the other day.  It was £10 and it's a little smaller than A6, but it's worth it.  I got it because I have found myself coming up with things to write about (which I have found is good for a blog), but not having anything to record them in.  I thought about getting a dictaphone, but then I'd have to grow a moustache, wear big glasses, and look at people as I smugly talk into my hand.  Since I don't like looking at people, I bought a book.  I'm getting the hang of it, this writing thing.  It's always hard to start a new sketchbook - slightly more so when you're writing in it.  But I have found a small passion - a smassion, if you will - for writing things that I (and hopefully a few others) find slightly amusing.  I'll let you know how it goes.

It was my little brother's 18th birthday the other week.  It was my other little brother's 21st a couple of weeks before that.  Good planning on the parent's part.  For my brother's 18th, we all went go-karting.  It was very nice.  My little brother is as much of a racing chav in a kart as he is in a car.  Hunched forward, one hand on the top of the wheel, one on the 'gear stick', looking round through rolled up eyes.  Oh dear.  The track itself was very good - it was quite big and it had a couple of bridges.  The karts were fantastic - nice and low, very tight steering, good grip (for the most part.  I swear my kart in the final race had less grip than my kart in the qualifiers.  And the seat was uncomfortable).  It was a pretty sweet way to spend a good few hours.  We had a BBQ in the afternoon and then we went out in the evening/night/early morning.  That's a whole new post.

One thing that I did notice when we were karting, was the fact that in a few 'man-sports' the people involved are, more often than not, inspired to recall the events of the day with much vigour and relish.  And usually a deeper voice and a different argot.  Well - not so much a different idiom, more of a change of emphases on certain words.  Words that would normally seem geeky or are previously untouched by the lips of the speaker become commonplace.  Go-karting and Paintballing seem to be the biggest culprits.  People are transformed into petrol heads and commandos.  They suck you in and give you a different life for a few hours; a 'life' after which, you are more than qualified to talk about what you have no idea about.  Even the shyest, most preserved folk turn into men who know what they're talking about - and talk about it with an almost unwavering certainty.

That said, you should have seen the way I entered the eleventh corner.  Nice and tight to the tyres, keeping it in until the last minute.  The steering was trying to get away, but I kept it under control.  I had to tap the brakes a bit towards the end to keep it from spinning out, but I think I dealt with it pretty well.  And so forth.

Solar flair.

Well, here's another after work, pre-shower post.  It's early in the morning and I need to go to bed.  As I pointed out in my last post, my inspirations seem to strike in the early hours when I'm in need of sleep.  Although this post is not particularly inspired, I wanted to post something either today or tomorrow, and I don't think I'll remember any of it tomorrow.  Well I probably will, but even if I save this today and post it tomorrow, it will still show today as the date I posted it.  Man, I'm just talking nonsense now.

Arguably, the chances of anything entering the Earth's atmosphere and burning up, creating a Shooting Star, is one in a googol.  Miniscule.  Pretty much too small to be bothered about.  But I am always filled with a childlike sense of optimism whenever I look up into the night's sky.  Hoping beyond hope that such a chance will occur.  (I think there might be a bigger chance than one in a googol - what with the asteroid belt floating round between Mars and Jupiter.  And the asteroid sphere that encompasses our Solar System.  Still - space is pretty big.  We've got a bigger chance of being missed by things flying towards us).  Tonight, my anticipation of this event was quenched.  I saw a Shooting Star.  It lasted long enough to not only catch my eye, but to allow me to look in its direction and watch it for the few seconds it lasted.  Bear in mind that a few seconds is ages for a Shooting Star.  It was enough time for me to see that it was, in fact, several pieces falling together after breaking up a bit - it was long enough for me to at least guess where it was heading - it was long enough for me to appreciate the orange colour it burnt with.  I can think of few things that are as awesome as a Shooting Star.

I learnt something new about the fourth state of matter the other day.  I have known what it is for a long time, but I've never thought of anything that is made from it, if that makes sense.  There is solid, liquid and gas.  And plasma.  The fourth, and most badass, state of matter.  It is ionised gas that is neither gas nor solid.  "Where can we find this?" I hear you ask.  "Fire," says I.  "And lightning," I further add.  I love that fact that it is something so simple.  Two everyday things.  Made of PLASMA.  That is all.

I am going to bed now.  It's got to the stage where I'm barely able to keep my eyes open and I've started to nod embarrassingly.  As well as this, I can hear noises that I shouldn't be hearing at this time of night; playing in my head like some sort of built-in speaker system.  My mind is telling me that I can hear the cars on my way home from work and that I'm on the 'Airfield' level of Call Of Duty 5.  At the same time.  And I know I'm not doing either.

I'm also reading my sentences over a good few times each before finally posting this, lest I make some hideous typo or grammatical error.

Wish me luck.

Early mourning.

I find that I get my best ideas and inspirations when I need to go to sleep.  More to the point - when I need to go to sleep because I have to be up early the next day.  Sometimes I want to take a picture that I know will not be possible to take again for a long time.  Other times, I just want to draw until I have no more ink.

I have just come back from work after closing up and finishing later than I thought possible.  It's 04:20 (as you can probably see form the 'time posted' bit at the bottom).

I was offered a lift home, which I declined (in the end).  The allure of the early morning birdsong was too much.  I just wanted to walk home and listen to Ms Nature.  I was trying very hard to think of when I would have another possibility to experience such an opportunity to find myself, by chance, in this situation again.  I thought I could easily set my alarm and go out for a dawn-break walk, but that would defeat the spontaneity somewhat.  Besides; I'd just go back to sleep anyway - annoyed at myself that I thought it was a good idea to wake me up at 03:00.

This walk home was pretty amazing, though.  As it was dawn, it was possible to see things, which gave me more confidence to walk home through a stretch of Southport that rivals the notoriety of piss bridge/rape bridge/nazi bridge/junkie bridge/death bridge.  You know where I mean.  If you don't, don't worry.  It is pretty much exactly how I have described it.  You're not missing out.

The birdsong was intense.  Calls from everywhere - the trees on the outskirts of my view, the tops of the lamp-posts, the tops of the buildings in the distance.  Geese honking across the other side of the Marine Lake.  A single gull drifted above me, highlighted pink by the rising sun.  Another gull a bit further on changed the status of the first gull to one of a pair.  It didn't seem to care, though.  I did.  It spoiled this part of the blog.  The bridge was silhouetted against the pink sky; the Lake mirroring the colours above it as its edges lapped against the banks.

Some more walking brought me to the edge of the calmer area, where the giggly shrieks of a girl and the slow silencing of the birds could be heard.  Getting further away, the gulls started to squawk.  I always imagine them as the English equivalent of the Hyena.  As the hyena chuckles, it conjures up images of blokes in their mid 20s, snickering like ne'er-do-wells at something inexplicably funny.  As the gull squawks, it brings images of a fat lady cackling to mind, with an association to Bingo, for reasons that escape me.

As I crossed the road, the giggling girl and her friends passed me in a car.  A bloke gestured a thumbs up to a cab that was parked in the middle of the road, asking for a lift.  No such luck.  The man and his lady friend crossed the road and started walking behind me, where she let out a big, classy belch.

Moving towards the outskirts of the town, the birds got louder once again.  The kebab shops had long since closed and the pubs were shut.  The beautiful sound of nature had only really been interrupted thrice by cars, but for a much longer time as I walked through the desolate streets.  It's a shame they have been driven out somewhat by the want of a cushy life.

Even so, I sit here now in bed, typing away to the sound of several birds behind me in the garden and the ever-funny Danny Wallace on iplayer.  I love our garden.  I love this part of town.  Junkies next door aside, it's a very nice place to live.  But I shall talk about that another time.  (Turns out that the time in the second paragraph is now wrong.  Huzzah).

As for now, I must rest my weary legs and close my tired eyes, 

for in three hours hence, I must once again arise

to work a ten-hour shift, finishing early in the night,

I'll hopefully sort my hours out, so that they might not be so rubbish.