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About

This weblog contains the life ::, rants ##, poems "" and scribblings *) of Nivelan.

:: scribbling away the sunday Tuesday, November 20, 2007 |

I've had a three day weekend, with Friday off for the funeral, but it hardly felt like time off. So today, with no massive plans needing immediate attention, I decided I'd go to Manchester to do a bit of reading or writing. I fancied a lazy chair, some coffee, a pen and a bit of inspiration. In Edinburgh, I used to visit a coffee shop at the foot of Arthur's Seat, across the Scotsman press building, but there's no such park in this town. In Nijmegen, I would visit the LUX arthouse cinema or a grand café such as L'Ambassadeur, Odessa, the Commanderie or De Foyer. But I wondered if I could find a pub in Manchester that's comfy and relatively quiet, and preferably with a good selection of beers.

But first things first of course - as it was a Sunday, and I had managed to find the Scotsman on Sunday newspaper at a newsagent's in town before, I decided to have a look for it again. If only I could remember where I last scored my favourite Sunday thickie. From Deansgate I marched past the posh shops to Cross Street, through Arndale to Piccadilly, through Tib Street to Ancoats and back to Piccadilly, then to Peter Street and back on to Deansgate. A list of streets that doesn't mean much unless you find yourself walking a fecking long way (at speed) for a paper. I didn't find it, so trudged back to Piccadilly and on to the train station. The Balcony Bar was a nice enough place to slump into a leather sofa with a Guinness. I got my old poetry book from my bag, and my new one which will hopefully become 'my completed works' - and started copy writing old poems across. In the new bundle the poems are arranged by year. I noticed I wrote a few good ones in 1996, but copied a lot of poor stuff too. I'd put a few on my blog here, but what's the point if they're already on my website nivelan.net - the good ones at least. When I get my site back up and working, moved to a UK host. Anyway, I'm going off-topic! After a few beers and a few scribbles, I walked back to Salford and grabbed a bus back home.

:: a trip to the Wirral Monday, November 19, 2007 |

I had agreed to join Lottie and her dad Alan on a trip to Merseyside, to pick up her horse Marik. Not realising of course how useless it would be for me to join them, and what a stressful trip it would be. In the morning, with Alan already up himself about getting up earlier than his afternoon usual twice in as many days, breakfast meant grabbing some sandwiches along with a thermos of Cup-a-Soup. My mood darkened when I realised that oh yes, of course it would be cruel to leave three little doggies alone for a few hours. The Landrover Discovery proved too small for two Armstrongs and three dogs barking at eachother, as it chugged to the Wirral at 50mph maximum on the Motorway. For some reason Alan - who prides himself in having been a top police driver and still quite capable of embarrassing hot hatches around Scottish lanes in his Landy - needed constant re-assurance we were in the right lane and on the right way. Despite hugging the left lane and myself constantly reading our from a printed Google map, that is. I wouldn't have minded much to be of service, but being barked at for pointing out we're indeed we're in the right lane was a bit much. I longed back to being in a car with my mate Bart, who needed no directions at all cruising to Edinburgh at 120mph. At least the dogs had settled down a bit on the Motorway, though they seemed a bit befuddled when they were let out for a wee at Chester Services. "All this way for a bloody wee?"



At the equestrian hospital, Marik didn't seem to bothered about anything much, as usual. While I have to admire his 17.2hh height and incredible strength, I like him best for his subdued nature. That said, he showed a different side to himself kicking seven colours of shit out of the trailer's back door when the car started moving. He needed a bit of sedation to get back to his usual self, but remained quite cool all the way back to Bolton. Alan of course wasn't. I had half expected him to know the way back a bit better than the way there, but I had to agree the roads all look different in the opposite direction. Biting my tongue as ever, I did. Lottie then stayed with Marik at the stables, while Alan and I brought the trailer back to the guy who had let us borrow it. I was surprised to find he needed no directions to get there, but didn't comment as I followed our route along the map with a bit of wonder. The three dogs in the back (and sometimes at the front) were of course keen for a walk, so Alan decided to drive past the house and on to Clifton Marina for them to have it. It meant that, while I was dying to get home, have a coffee and get away from everything for a bit, I sheepishly followed him around the lake and so did the dogs. Well, until one of them spotted two puppies and ran off with them, that is. Looking for it ever more frantically, Alan and I did three rounds rather than the one - but thankfully found the dog. On the way home, we again went past the house to stop at the garage instead for sir to buy his paper. And then finally, I could lock myself away for a while taking some frustration out in FIFA 2005 on the pc. My team Hearts of Midlothian knocked up more than a few red cards..

:: Losing a neighbour |

Less than three months ago I rode out of Newcastleton, in the back of a hearse, to a graveyard on a hilly field. Lottie's mum was buried here, in the Scottish Borders. Two weeks ago, as the gravestone for Lottie's mother arrived, the lovely old lady next door died quite unexpectedly in hospital, from thrombosis. It came as quite a shock, for Lottie especially, who was cruelly reminded of the still too recent grief. Also of course, as Lottie grew up as her neighbour and loved her as a second mum, she found it very hard to take. Her father, as an executioner of the will, asked Lottie to handle the funeral arrangements. Fair in a way, as he himself would have to come a long way down from Scotland - and had arranged his wife's funeral recently. But Lottie shouldn't have had to do either. I wish I could have done it in her place, but as I hadn't got to know the neighbour anywhere near as well, and certainly not her son either (a friendly 50-odd year old bloke with a mental impediment), I had no place but to support Lottie where I could, instead. As a grimy silver lining to a cloud, the amount of work she had to handle meant she hadn't much time to break down in despair. Especially since, on top of it, her young horse Marik was in hospital for a possibly career-threatening injury to his hocks.

On Friday, the cold but dry weather suited the funeral. The mass, at a Roman Catholic church, reminded me of the many masses I visited as a kid accompanying family. I duly folded my hands at the many prayers and psalms, stood up and sat down at a dozen unspoken requests, succeeded in not chuckling when a visiting priest stuttered his way through a prayer.. And generally, I had a suitably sombre expression on my face, with slight relief when holy water was sprinkled but didn't burn on my skin - and no horns grew from my forehead. The only part I had ever looked forward too in my years of following regular church visits was a disappointment though. In the Netherlands, the 'body of Christ' bread was handed to us by one priest, then dipped in the 'blood of Christ' at another priest holding a chalice. Here, only the priest seemed to eat a bit of body, after which the entire congregation drank from the same cup. I remembered each Dutch mass started with expressions of sympathy to a large list of sick people and family of the deceased, it seemed both heretic and grossly unhygienic to follow the Catholics baying for a little blood.

After the service I joined Lottie and others in the hearse, riding out of Swinton, to a crematorium near Heaton Park. Another small service was held, after which a few people saw shades of our deceased neighbour and her predeceased husband dance to Nat King Cole's "Unforgettable". And then the curtains closed.

:: Looking up (2) sweet & sour November Friday, November 09, 2007 |

Since my low point at the end of October, things have rapidly improved for me this month - albeit with a sour note. I couldn't get the overdue salary in too quickly, but Lottie managed to lend me some bus money and on Friday my account looked a lot rosier. Then on Saturday a letter from Halifax congratulated me for being accepted for a proper bank account with an overdraft et cetera. A small step for some, but a giant one for me right now. My NHS card had come through the post earlier too, so I got my passport application underway. Mind you, without the passport I can't activate the bank account yet. Oh well. I should soon be able to get a provisional license and CBT too, to finally get off the bus for good - and on a bike instead. If I get my airse in gear, I might get somewhere at last. I might even get to the Netherlands on a holiday in early January, to see my family. Not as significant but still quite good, I ordered another cd-rom on line with which to play Fifa 2005 - after a previous order turned out be scratched. It worked after updating my 3d card drivers and provided plenty of entertainment after work. The sour note though is that, last Tuesday, the lovely next door neighbour quite unexpectedly died after mistreatment (seemingly) in a Salford hospital. I always liked her a lot, and she was a second mum for my girlfriend from the day she was born. Less than six months after her real mum died, it's hit Lottie by surprise - but as there's a funeral to arrange there's no time yet to think about any pain.