I went out this afternoon in the hope of buying a couple of new t-shirts. Due to the weight loss since last summer, the ones I have all resemble circus tents, which could house a matinee performance for hundreds of small children plus their candy-floss.

Anyway, I digress. I went to several shops in the gene puddle. I didn’t want anything fancy, just some t-shirts, with sleeves (let’s be fair, vest tops on people of a certain age, carrying just a little too much weight, just aren’t pleasant). So, I went into shop after shop. If they had sleeves, they were in neon colours, or had netting on them, or large numbers or motos on the front. God damn, I just want a plain coloured t-shirt or three.

It did cross my mind that, as we have gone without rain for over 3 days in the puddle and many of the general populace are in shorts (and in one case hot pants - but it wasn’t a Kylie bottom - oh, dear me, no!) the shops may have simply run out of plain t-shirts, in the clamour for “summer clothing”. Oh, well, I’ll have to try again next weekend, by which time the rain and snow will be back and I’ll be looking for fleeces!

So, there have been two moments of reflection over the past week or so. The first came in two parts.

Whilst I was in London last week, someone said, in conversation, about the way in which we sometimes live in the past. We all do it to an extent, some more than others, possibly, but in the past a part of us always remains. It tends to be in the good times - when we were happiest or felt at our strongest. For me it was certainly the late eighties, still in school and with the ultimate feeling that I could change the world for the better. Of course, with time, and cynicism, this view alters. However, I drift back there, to feeling strong when the reality of current living becomes too much.

I went out with the Manc Scum on Thursday, along with a mutual friend whose recently become a father. After he’d limped home, returning to the restless nights of feeds and nappies, the Manc Scum and I carried on drinking and talking. At one point we discussed the past - with himself musing on how pathetic it was really that we still spent so much time talking about it. Of course it’s pathetic. We all have lives that could fill an evenings conversation. However, it encompasses our roots - how we became who we are and perhaps more importantly how we learned to trust certain of our friends more completely than others. It remains what binds us together; without that jumping off point, not only would we never have met, but more importantly the things we experienced together have given us the boundaries and stages on which we have built our lives.

The second moment came only last night, when I ventured out for a few diet Cokes at my favourite pub. An old friend was back visiting his folks, and I later bumped into another who was home for the weekend to catch up with friends, thanks to the Irish bank holiday on Modnay. They both mentioned how they logged into this site to keep track on what was happening in the gene puddle. Of course, at that point we agreed that very little ever happened in the gene puddle - being what it is, a small town, which encompasses our past but only for some our future. It never had entered my brain that people I knew were coming back, time and again, to keep up on the news. Not to say that that is a bad thing - and as one of them said, once you break the code of who is who, you can keep up to date very well - but it is certainly not what I intended when I started writing this.

It gives me a good feeling to know that people I know and care about, regardless of where they now reside, check up to see that everything is well with me and the world of the gene puddle. It’s also good to know that others, who have never met me in person, have become part of my life, through writing on this site. As well as this, I know there are people who come back, time and again, despite the fact they have no idea who I am, to see if there is an update.

To all, I promise I will try to break the silence more often over the coming weeks, than has been the case recently.

OK, (takes a slight pause in order to regain breath) so met up with the source of the possible good news. He was very impressed and we are discussing packages. And by that I mean the mundane work type packages and not those discussed by drunk women in clubs on a Saturday night (usually accompanied by the use of the word “phwoar..”).

I’m not getting excited. No, really, not a whiff of excitement…

Well, OK, perhaps just a bit!

Why is it that when there is news, and potentially fecking excellent news at that, there is never ANYBODY on IM to share it with? Eh?

This relates to the fact, as I said before, that there may be good news in May. Thursday looks like crunch time.

So, got back Monday - minus my purse, inclusive of credit cards, money and train ticket - and am knackered. Had a fab time, and will fill you in during the week.

Needless to say, my host was perfect.

It crossed my adled brain earlier this evening that blogging is cyclical. Cyclical is actually my word de jour - having used it at least 50 times in my latest essay on the American economy (which is in its envelope as I type - yeah!). But, it makes the point. All things are cyclical.

It’s like going out and staying in - sometimes your social life is a whirl, and at other times at a complete standstill. It’s been the former for me over the last week or so, which is nice but so tiring. Last Friday I cooked dinner for eight people - all family, and other than the other half and I, all over 50. Despite that, it was nice. The meal was a late celebration of my mother’s 70th birthday, and she had a ball, which was the main thing.

The following day I joined the Manc Scum down the pub for the FA Cup Final, before meeting himself and my mate the Brum sculptor from the train. An evening of drink, food and conversation followed, which was fab. I paid for it on Sunday, only managing the odd grunt here and there. The Brum sculptor stayed a second night, which meant I didn’t get into bed until nearly 4am on Monday morning - and then had to be up for work at 7am. I was late getting up, but not late into the office, which was fine.

The late night meant the whole week went to cock. I never fully recovered and faced with my mother in laws 60th birthday party last night, I felt the only answer was double vodkas. I’m not sure quite how, but I did have quite a few. Not enough to stop the embarrassment when my parents got up to “do their thing” to Mambo No.5, but a few nonetheless. As an aside, my mother said today that my father - a very sensible man, on the whole - was staggering slightly on the way home. 5 pints it took. I’m not sure whether I’m proud that the old man is still capable of staggering - or ashamed that it only took 5 pints.

Anyway, crawled in around 1am, went straight to bed and had the best nights sleep for years. Problem was, I overslept and didn’t make it into work until 9.20am! I took biscuits for everyone so was soon forgiven - but one of the staff said my eyes were “glazed”. Not sure what that meant, but as I could hardly see out of them at the time, decided it was best not to say too much.

And so, to the Bank Holiday weekend. Am off to the Big Smoke, probably to smoke and drink too much, once again. I seem to have fallen off my little wagon, somewhat, but thems the breaks. Will be back Sunday, hopefully with many reports of exciting goings-on!

For the British, have a good Bank Holiday, and for the internationals, have a great weekend.

A funny take on the history of the internet. Thanks, as always, to Adrian for this.

Sorry! I know, days have passed. However, I do have a life, including dinner parties, guests from out of town, football finals, oh, yes and another bloody essay.

So, I’ve just popped in after seeing the following in Gert’s account of her Auntie Olivia’s funeral. The extract goes (and I hope she will forgive the cut and paste)..

“The convent sent her to teach in Barry South Wales, and, then, other places in Britain. She became disillusioned, wanting to teach as a missionary, or not at all. So she left the convent and left teaching.”

The gene puddle strikes again. If it can make a missionary “disillusioned”, imagine how I feel - a non-God fearing soul - after 31 years!

Anyway back to the essay - it’s economics this time - whopty!

So, the gene puddle is located in the wealthiest part of Wales.

As the article on the BBC News website reports “The final figure found the Vale of Glamorgan, in south-east Wales, the wealthiest part of Wales, with an average adjusted income of £34,350, (actual salary £23,564).” There are people out there that I know will be shocked by this finding - having visited the puddle on occasion.

However, despite romping home ahead of Cardiff North (where the boss lives - although I’m surely not earning more than him?), the Vale still came only 29th wealthiest area in the complete survey of England and Wales. The Beckhams apparently live in the wealthiest area - although I wonder whether their income (well, his really, as her income has hit the floor somewhat) has skewed the figures?

Today is officially Smiths Day in the small gene puddle. The Other Half will be thrilled when I get home tonight, with my gladiolis, and start flouncing around the living room, shirt flapping in the breeze.

As part of the public service element of this site, you may find the following links of use - especially if you have no idea who The Smiths are. The BBC are doing their best, with this
profile of The Smiths and this page on BBC News, marking the day. For the true devotee, The Shoplifters Union should answer any outstanding questions.

Back to work, now, with The Queen is Dead in the background. It doesn’t get much better.