.

.

Remember, the camera adds 10lbs.

.

It started at the bottom of the garden. Our four year old (at the time), our sweet little boy would casually drop his pants and piss into a bush whilst on his travels.

.

We laughed. We explained that he can’t do that everywhere and that it’s not a great idea to be doing it in the garden either.

.

For a while he had his own little spot. We didn’t allow him do it, but it was kind of cute so we weren’t exactly angry at him (still not of course). We’d call his name mid stream, his stream would wiggle and stop, then he’d pull up his pants and run away without looking.

He’s now five and still at it, although in fairness most of the time he does it right. I guess he just likes to try out new places.

.

Last week, he informed Mrs. Rumm he was off to the bathroom. She watched as he left the room, then followed at a discreet distance, noting the mischievious tone in his voice…

The bathroom door is next to the backdoor of the house. Instead of turning right to go into the bathroom, he turned left, stood on the step at the back door and pissed to the outside air.

.

Yesterday, he came in from outside and went upstairs. I was downstairs and shouted up to him to go wash his hands.

“I will,” he called back nonchalantly.

It’s not that I don’t trust him, but I know when he answers for the sake of answering even though he hasn’t heard a word I just said.

So I went up a couple of steps and was able to peek through the bannister into the upstairs toilet.

Young Master Rumm had walked to the side of the sink and was now climbing onto the bath. Now he reached across and put his knees onto the wooden frame around the sink. Now he dropped his pants and like a little Cupid fountain, kneeling, began to piss into the sink as though it’s the most natural thing in the world.

.

Conscious of the mid-stream splaying wiggle he has whenever confronted in the garden, I said his name softly. As if nothing had happened, he came to a halt, pulled up his trousers, climbed down, then continued his stream at the toilet bowl.

.

Whatchagonnadowiththat?

.

.

“There are known knowns; there are things we know we know. We also know there are known unknowns; that is to say we know there are some things we do not know. But there are also unknown unknowns — the ones we don’t know we don’t know. So when we do the best we can and we pull all this information together, and we then say well that’s basically what we see as the situation, that is really only the known knowns and the known unknowns. And each year, we discover a few more of those unknown unknowns.” -Donald Rumsfeld, 2002.

.

I believe Rummy missed one: The unknown knowns.
.
In fact, I believe most popular movies/ books/ anything else misses this too. It is a highly underrated knowledge.
.
The unknown knowns are those things you know, but aren’t aware you know. They could be things you take for granted or something right under your nose that you never knew you knew about -for example you might “know” something to be true, but never actually think about it (and so not know you know) until perhaps someone else mentions it.

.
“She’s pregnant!” …only after you hear it do you realise that you somehow “knew” all along.
.

Similarly, the best comedy is often to be had from these unknown knowns -everyday life events we already know about, but weren’t aware we knew or did. When they are held up in front of our eyes, perhaps through a skewed lens, we have to laugh because we recognise what we already knew, but somehow didn’t know we knew.

.

Why do I say this is missed by most books and movies nowadays?

.

Well, in my opinion the best “works of art” are almost indescribable, yet speak sometimes in a personal nature directly to the reader/ viewer. It’s not something that can be described in the blurb in the back of the book, so it’s not easily marketable, so it’s unappreciated.
Or under-appreciated at least.

.

Maybe the book/ movie hasn’t even broached a topic, but yet puts a certain thought in your head or leaves you with a mood that is familiar and yet new. These are the greatest.

.

I’ve often turned the last page of a book I really enjoyed and half an hour later could barely remember any of it. To me, that makes the book almost a complete waste of time.

.

On the other hand, the best books can often be harder to get into -they need some work by us readers, to place ourselves in the right frame of mind to appreciate “the full show”. But as the last page is turned, we are left floating for a long time afterward. Maybe with much to think about or just to appreciate the mood.

.
The unknown knowns can also lead one to that “ah yes of course!” moment, as when you suddenly realise “AAHHH So *THIS* is where it’s all going! -I didn’t know that, but now that I know I know it, I knew it all along!”

.

The unknown knowns are the best of all knowns and unknowns because they take the least effort with the greatest reward (or at least the groundwork has already been done, maybe subconsciously).

.
NOW… The next time you find a forgotten tenner in your back-pocket you will hold it aloft and declare with joy: “The unknown known!” 

.

.

Jim Emerson has a good discussion on Rumsfeld’s points here.

.

.

In this series I posit some unconventional/ will-never-be-tried solutions to problems of our times.

.

Most people pay for always-on internet access at home, but when “on the go” it is not always easy to access the internet without incurring silly charges. OK, you can buy more internet access as part of your mobile phone package deal, but chances are even that is silly money -and anyway, you only want to check your emails/ have a quick browse to check the price on a TV online before you purchase locally (or not).

Why should you pay more than once for “always on” internet access?

.

THE PROBLEM: Mobile internet access is too expensive, but if I want it “on the go” -even in short bursts- I gotta pay even though I already pay for home broadband.

.

THE SOLUTION: Allow outside access to your wi-fi.

.

OK, like yourself (if you have a passing knowledge of such things), I see obvious reasons not to do such a thing: security and bandwidth. Let’s deal with these individually:

.

1. Security.

“Someone might pass by my window, detect my wi-fi, log on and compromise my entire network -delete files and take my identity!”

.

Worst case scenario, this is true -a valid fear.

.

However, there are ways and means to allow people to access the internet without allowing access to your internal network -it’s just nobody (that I know of) has built such an option into router firmware because …well… “who would want freeloading strangers hogging their bandwidth?”

.

2. Bandwidth.

Many ISPs have a bandwidth cap. Others do not. Most people use a tiny percentage of their bandwidth potential. If the water is running freely anyway isn’t it a little selfish to not allow a thirsty passerby take a drink?

.

Again, there are ways and means to monitor bandwidth usage and to disconnect greedy freeloaders. This could all be automated so it’s not like you’d even have to know -again you just need the right firmware for your router …firmware that hasn’t been written yet, possibly.

This firmware could allow a certain bandwidth ‘leakage’ per day and for any single user to use, say no more than 1% of that leakage.

.

Of course this won’t be adopted because: …Actually I think this one would/ will be adopted once people get their heads around it and router firmware developers start building in these options.

(Alright, I freely admit there may be just such a massive movement already in operation -I haven’t done any homework on it, but I’m just saying it would be a ‘neat idea’… Also I freely admit to having no technical knowledge of such matters… it’s possible two routers would be required for security -even still, some of us would do it I’m sure -enough to set the trend!)

.

So why open your wi-fi?

Stick it to the man. You don’t like double-paying. You already pay for more than you use anyway. Why pay “the man” just because you want it in another format too? It’s like buying a CD and having to pay again for an MP3.

Make what you don’t use available to others and they might do likewise. Soon everyone can access their emails/ do a quick browse/ Tweet/ etc. everywhere -including you.

.

Even if it’s a long time before you find others doing it, I know all of us dream of being Robin Hood -that’s why it’s such an everlasting story. Now you too can be Robin Hood without even leaving your home!

.

So, maybe you can’t do it right now, but if enough people have a wish to do something like this, then someone somewhere will make it happen (I know Google intend to make such a thing a reality anyway, so all of this could be unnecessary in time -that would make me very happy believe me).

.

.

Brushing teeth is like polishing shoes. If you don’t use polish at all your shoes always look fine -a little scuffed over time, perhaps. Never “sparkly” of course. But fine.

As soon as you start using shoe polish you had best never quit because the day you do your shoes crumple up and fall apart.

.

.

A friend of mine has never brushed his teeth. Well maybe a few times when there was a toothbrush-drive on at school. You might believe he has brown choppers and a mouthful of halitosis, but no.

.

He’s 40 years old, has no fillings and I don’t recall him ever losing a tooth (I would know about these things).

A few years back he went to the dentist for a checkup. After the inspection the dentist said there was nothing for him to do in there and asked what his secret was.

.

“Drink Coke and never brush your teeth!” he told him.

.

.

I almost regret doing what I was told all those years, but I guess it’s too late for me to stop now -they’d probably fall apart.

.

I lived with another friend for a few months after college. A gang of us shared an apartment in fact. Anyway, when this friend unpacked his toothbrush I held it up and laughed -it was completely splayed-out.
“We could use that to scrub the pots,” I joked.

“Yeah we could,” he said, seriously.

“And what would you use for your teeth?” I asked.

He nodded to what I held in my hand and said “that”.

He wasn’t joking.

.

Still on the toothbrush front… I use ‘manual’ myself, but a couple of years agoI bought my wife an EXCELLENT present for Christmas… a Phillips Sonicare Toothbrush!

.

I had spent days scouring the internet (they were hard to find OK, but someone had told me they were the ultimate toothbrush so I persisted) and finally I located one in time to be delivered before the 25th of December.

.

To say it was the most disappointing present she ever received from me (including when I bought her a toilet brush+holder and a wok for our first wedding anniversary) is an understatement. She was disgusted.

.

I too was devestated because I thought it was such a great gift. …The gratitude of some people!

.

.

This toothbrush is upstairs somewhere as I type… hardly used, though slowly yellowing in the bathroom last time I noticed (I try not to). I could probably sell it cheap if anyone was interested?

.

.

Actually, that reminds me of another toothbrush tale… The same toothbrush in fact…

.

I don’t know if they sell them anymore, or if the shape has changed, but at the time the Sonicare was a fairly sizeable electric, plastic item (around 6-8″ or so in length).

.

…It was on the kitchen table, amid a pile of other “clutter” one day. The brush part was not attached.

.

My mother called round and we were talking in the kitchen. She picked up the (half) toothbrush, in mid-sentence, but didn’t refer to it in any way as she talked about something else. She examined it for a couple of seconds, then more or less threw it down and quickly turned away as if she had a fright.

.

She only briefly lost track of what she was talking about, before continuing.

.

.

I couldn’t very well cry out “it’s a toothbrush – not a vibrator!” She was already talking about other things. It’s probably best she didn’t switch it on though.

.

.

…And that reminds me of another tale…

.

I know someone who hid a porno dvd in a Riverdance dvd case. Nobody would ever think to look at Riverdance, right? …Then one day his mother-in-law called round and borrowed a disc while he wasn’t there… yes you guessed it -she was in a mood for some sweaty thrusts and dexterous writhing that night, culminating in a heavy banging climax.

.

To those of you sniggering that it was me -of course it wasn’t. What would I be doing with a Riverdance DVD!?

.

.

.

I’ll tell you something: I don’t like McDonalds. Never have.

.

It’s not that I’d advocate bombing the place or even campaigning against it. It’s just I feel it stands for a lot of things I dislike: the de-personalisation of serving & eating food, Corporate infiltration in the everyday lives of people, false and insincere advertising, homogenisation/ making everything the same all over the world according to the big book of the double arches, bland buildings inside & out, bland decor, bland & barely-edible lowest-common denominator “food” short on sustenance and taste/big on stamping home the message (over and over) that McDonalds is fun fun FUN. If you’re not in, you’re not in. The Catch-em-while-they’re-young marketing reminds me of nothing but the Hitler Youth. Well that’s not entirely true -it also reminds me of another company I hate with a vengeance for much the same reasons, but I won’t rant on about Disney right now. That’s nothing to do with this tale.

.

I’m not here to force my opinions (for that is all they are) on you, but to tell you of something funny:

.

Mrs. Rumm burst her appendix two weeks ago. Hilarious I know, but that’s not the funny part, honest.

Mrs. Rumm had her appendix removed and I had to take care of her and the two kids for two whole weeks (not finished yet) virtually 24hrs a day. They’re a demanding lot.

So, although I also hate bland & brainless movies for children as much as I hate feeding them sub-standard food, you must forgive me if I breathed a sigh of relief when Mrs. Rumm volunteered to take them to Nanny McPhee and the Big Bang during the week.

Alright, I had to drive them there -and I had to do the shopping while they were at it, but I still exhaled more in those two hours than a reversed hoover (is it a myth that some can be set to blow/ not suck? I’ve never seen one -I want one now!).

Honestly, living with them these past two weeks (and running) is like having a family of Vietnamese boat people move into your home and follow you about as you try to steal a quiet moment in the bathroom.
As lovely and rewarding as that may be, it’s just a bit difficult to adapt to in short order.

.

Anyway, we arranged to meet afterwards for some food in the food-court.
When I got there, the kids already had theirs on a tray and Mrs. Rumm was trying to lift ours from the counter at Eddie Rockets.
I took the tray and we sat.

We set out the food and immediately I was struck by the measly portions the kids had. Near-white, limp chips and half a dozen plastic-looking flattened chicken-droppings were buried in their containers under a packet of sugary-looking raisins and a large plastic assembly dinosaur.
“Sheesh, Eddie Rockets has gone downhill” I thought as I munched into an enormous & quite tasty chicken breast burger (I’m not a complete tree-hugger y’know).

.

It was only halfway through the meal when I commented on the substandard and truly unacceptable ‘food’ the kids had. “How come they make one type of chips for adults and another type for the kids?” I asked, puzzled.

Of course, that shows you how observant I really am: Mrs. Rumm had bought the kids’ grub first in McDonalds, then ours. Only then did I notice the balloon-on-sticks they both had with a big bloated Ronald McDonald waving and sneering at me.

“Nyeh nyeh,” he sneered. “You can run, but you cannot hide your children -they’re all mine!”

.

I swear I haven’t felt so disgusted and cheated in years. Quite recently we had finally saved enough to have our driveway ‘done’. Unfortunately we were done more than the drive. It’s not a complete disaster (but will be in a short time), but nothing was right with it. The whole thing will have to be dug up and redone at some stage I’m still convinced. Four grand down the drain. If we had a decent drain.

But the point is, I felt worse sitting across from my two corporate-embossed, indoctrinated, brainwashed offspring in that instant than I did when I first saw the state of the drive.

.

Red-faced, I grabbed the dinosaurs and tried to stuff them into my pockets. They were too big. I promised the kids they weren’t having them. The older one knew enough not to complain, but the boy put up a fight.

Did I over-react? I still don’t think so. If only more parents actually stopped to think and actually looked at what is being passed-off as food in this place (and others) we wouldn’t be captives to such a corporate world. Not that corporations are intrinsically evil you understand, but we need to be more discerning because it is in every corporation’s interest to look after its own bottom-line. If more people found their slop unacceptable then the corporation (whichever corporation is in question) would quickly raise their standards.

So, the only one I blame in this really is you -whoever you are.
I blame the people who pay money to corporations that provide an inadequate service or product.
So, really what I felt at this point was self-loathing. *I* am the type of person who sanctions this kind of abusive, thoughtless, careless, plastic material substitute for any sort of genuine love or happiness.

Do you really care for your loved ones? Then show it by buying this!

Happy Meal me hole.

.

Right. I promised something funny. I digress. Mea culpa…

.

I tossed the plastic toys in the bin as I dumped the wrappers, but you’ll have to forgive me for not popping their balloons. We left the food-court, me somewhat in front.
I felt like a cowardly silent conscientious objector parent in Nazi Germany, forced to grin and bear it as his kids waved the nazi flag. I couldn’t bare to be near them.

.

The next morning, the balloons were burst and lay on the floor, still clinging to the end of their plastic sticks. Of course, the children immediately blamed me for it. And they were right to.

There were other bits, but this is all I found when taking the photo

sddssdsdsds.

It’s not how it looks. Honest. Let me explain.

…You see, that (following) day was April 1st. My older child had been eagerly asking for the past two months “what are you going to do on April 1st, daddy?”

I had no idea. But after they went to bed on March 31st and I thought of those banners to all I hate silently shouting their triumphalist message of domination over my dearly-beloved I immediately knew what I had to do…

I bid farewell to Mrs. Rumm (careful not to tell her my plan) and drove to the nearest shop still open at that hour. I needed a red balloon and a pink one. The multi-coloured packet had no pinks, so I had to buy a packet of pink ones as well. I also spotted “LED Balloons” -they light up you know. Had to have those too.

.
..

In the car park outside the shop, a middle-aged lady had parked next to my car and remained in her seat as I climbed into mine. We eyed each other carefully. She didn’t want to leave her 5 year old jalopy in case I robbed it. I didn’t want to blow up two balloons and pop them with her sitting there looking at me. It was a curious standoff.

I feigned busyness. Of course I could have waited to blow them up at home, but Mrs. Rumm would have come to examine the cause of the two bangs. It’s true I could have stopped the car on the way, but pulling over to the side of the road to blow up and pop two balloons could potentially grow its own legs in this already-too-long tale.

.

So, without looking, but still feeling a pair of granny eyeballs boring a hole in the side of my head, I set about blowing up the first balloon. The red one.

I finished and she still sat there. I blew up the pink one. It was my intention to pop them there and then, but felt I might have Jessica Fletcher tapping at my window in no time, unable to contain her curiosity, so instead I started the engine and pulled away. Just then she left her car and proceeded into the shop. Undoubtedly she was on her own April 1st mission. Far be it for me to question the girl.

.

So I was on my way home with two unpopped balloons. If I waited until I pulled up outside Mrs. Rumm might hear them from the bedroom window which overlooked the parking spot. Another dilemma! And you think you have it tough!

Stopped at a red light, I reached over without looking and clamped my hand over one balloon. It put up a somewhat short-lived pliant struggle, but soon succumbed to my greater strength and determination. A passerby snapped her head round as she crossed the road, but found nothing but a pair of cold impassive eyes staring back at her.

The light turned green and I was off. Remorseless now I burst the second without passion or incident as I drove.

.

I pulled up outside the house and there were some moments of tense fumbling in the dark as I attempted to recover all the bits from around & below the passenger seat. It was touch and go for a while there.
“Evidence” you know! It’s precisely this kind of sloppiness that Columbo  capitalises on time and again.

.

Inside, I found the McD balloons on the floor in the front room precisely where they had been left. I wasted no time in unfastening each from its staff and attaching my ruptured replacements.

I left them right inside the door where the kids would be unable to miss them first thing in the morning. I went to bed that night in quite an excited state.

.

Twice I dreamt of the kids bursting into the bedroom, crying and waving their sticks with balloon pieces hanging forlornly from the tops.  The second time when I woke it was just getting bright outside. Roughly 6:30AM by my reckoning. They usually arose before seven. No work or school today.

Right on time, or a little after, they awoke and went downstairs within minutes of each other sometime around seven.

I waited. Silence. The telly went on. Mrs. Rumm stirred but stayed, nursing her wounds.

How could they have missed them!?? Were my plans foiled by the indifference and fickle interest of children? As much as I wished it could be true, I must admit I wished it wasn’t. At the same time I thought the fact I had two dreams of the same scene meant it now couldn’t possibly come true. Experience has taught me to expect the unexpected. How would this scene change when it happened? If at all.?

An hour later I was starting to doze again when I heard angry footsteps on the stairs. The door burst open. It was the kids. They waved their little plastic sticks with sad looking burst balloon bits hanging from the tops. They were angry, shouting and half-crying. Just as I had dreamt twice. It was too perfect.

“Daddy! You burst our balloons!” they cried.

“Did you?” Mrs. Rumm gasped, believing it without needing a reply.

I reached for my phone camera next to the bed and took this photo:

.

.

“Why would you immediately blame me for your popped balloons?” I enquired.

“That is pure evil,” announced Mrs. Rumm, unconvinced.

.

Anxious that nothing be said that can’t be taken back I caved.
“Fool fool fool, the first of April!” I sang, pointing at everyone. There was a pregnant pause as they tried to work out where precisely the trick lay. Was bursting the balloons the joke?

.

“They’re under the stairs!” I explained.

.

“Ohhh!” laughed the four year old and ran to recover them.

.
“No! It’s a trick!” laughed the eight year old, calling him back. It’s a terrible thing to not know when to trust your father. Funny though.

.

Of course they were under the stairs. I’m not that bad. Pop a kid’s balloon? Moi!?

No, I had the kids do that themselves…

.

Downstairs, I told them I had an offer to make. I held aloft their two balloons in one hand and a pin in the other.

“I want you to pop your balloons,” I stated.

“No way!” they cried.

“…and in return I’ll give you one of these!” then I put down the pin and held up the uninflated LED balloons.

There was a silence as they assessed the offer. I pulled the cord on one balloon and the LED lit up. Before I even had time to blow it up my daughter grabbed the pin and popped her balloon. My son then took the pin and as he stuck it in, I told him “think of Ronald McDonald when you do that!”

BANG!

It was a minor victory and a happy, happy time.

.

A while back myself and Mrs. Rumm brought our two mothers to dinner in a nice, remote, quiet restaurant. It was a quite-stylish place, in an old-fashioned kind of way.

My mother doesn’t drink a lot, but that night she had a few glasses of wine.

Our waiter was a pleasant, pasty-faced, rubber-nosed ‘humble but snobbish’ type. He looked like Rowan Atkinson. Every time he came to our table my mother would start giggling quietly.

.

He became increasingly curious about her, pausing mid-sentence with a questioning rictus smile on his face, to hear if she had anything to say. She couldn’t say anything she was holding back so much laughter, just nodding to agree with whatever excuses/ distractions we were making.

.

Before we finished our meal, he returned and asked if everything was to our satisfaction. Again, my mother began giggling and this time it was obvious she was laughing at him. The rest of us were embarrassed.
I said “she’s not used to wine”.

He smiled and bowed his head and said “that’s quite alright I get that all the time.”

Then as he was reversing away, my dearest momma raised a finger in his direction and screamed “he’s like… MR. BEAN!” at the top of her wailing voice. We all broke out laughing even as I was dying from embarrassment.

.

The food was lovely, but I couldn’t get out of there fast enough.

.

Look at the amazing offer I discovered in my local Tesco!

…I wonder how much for three of them?

A few years back I was driving around, trying to encourage the baby to take a nap in the back of the car. Eventually I realised she had no intention of dozing so I admitted defeat and headed for home.

I took a turn off the main road, through what I assumed to be a cross-country shortcut. This straight road soon narrowed and split. I stuck to the wider (though not by much) route and came to an intersection with many signposts. Choosing a path pointing somewhat in the direction of home I continued.

More intersections followed, mostly now with no signposts. Soon I was tearing past crossroad after crossroad, forks and T-Junctions. Where there were signs they mostly contradicted each other.  That didn’t bother me of course -I relied solely on my instinctive sense of direction. My internal compass points unfailingly to Home at all times.

Now I noticed none of these intersections had any Yield or Stop signs. Who was in the right when a narrow road intersected with a slightly narrower (or broader) road? Could the bigger narrow road be considered the ‘main’ road? Of course one should “yield right of way”, but here there were subtle size differences that suggested maybe one was THE MAIN road and another was where you need to stop. It was all somewhat confusing, but almost pleasantly so.

I turned a corner and came across a motorbike in the middle of yet another crossroads that had apparently just crashed into a JCB that was entering the junction. The biker was picking himself up and the JCB driver was already out of his cab. Immediately I noticed both were young -less than twenty, maybe eighteen.

The JCB driver was very distraught. He cried that he just came to the junction and the bike flew out of nowhere. The biker was limping but otherwise appeared ok. I asked if he was ok. He was. No bleeding or any other apparant cuts. We picked up the bike.

To my untrained eye the damage seemed “serious but superficial”, but both crash-participants gasped and cried when they saw it. Some plastic sections were smashed in and smashed out. There were a few large dents and scrapes. It couldn’t be driven right away, but the mechanics of it looked ok and it could be wheeled, so we decided to push it out of the centre of the corssroads, onto the embankment. Several parts stayed on the road as we did.

I hadn’t passed any other vehicles since leaving the main road, but just then another car arrived on the scene. The woman inside glanced and drove on, crunching bike parts under her wheels.

I asked the two guys if either of them needed to be brought someplace or if I could do anymore. The JCB driver said he had a mobile phone and he would ring somebody. The biker then looked at the other guy and recognised him “Gearóid isn’t it?”. The driver said yes.

I knew they weren’t going to come to blows or anything so I pointed out I had a baby in the car (who was stretching to see what was going on) and I had to go. They seemed calm and waved me off.

I continued my journey as I thought of the events that had ocurred. I had deliberately avoided asking exactly what had happened in case of dispute later on -I hadn’t seen anything happen anyway, so it’s not like I was a material witness.

More T-junctions and Y-junctions flitted past. Now I knew I was only guessing the way, but had complete confidence in my navigational prowess. GPS? Pah!

I looked behind. The baby was gazing happily out the window, musing on trees or bunny rabbits or whatever it is a two-year old muses on.

I turned a corner and came to a junction with several broken plastic parts in the middle of the road. A JCB stood directly in front of me. My head went dizzy as I realised where I was. I wanted to sink into the ground. The biker emerged from behind the JCB. At first I feigned concern “ye’re still alright are ye?”

He was in good spirits and told me they were fine and someone was on the way. I had to laugh then and pointed out I hadn’t a clue where I was going, but before the biker could reply the JCB driver stumbled past with his head in his open hands. “Oh God no” was all he was repeating over and over. Just then he paused and looked up as though realising for the first time there was a car nearby. In doing so, he caught the big stupid cheesy grin that was now frozen across my face. I didn’t think asking for directions was the right thing to do under the circumstances.

I straightened myself and became the voice of authority. “It’ll be alright” I assured him.

He paused as though snatching at a comfort and looked straight at me with pleading eyes. Clearly he needed more. “It could’ve been a lot worse” I told him.

His face dropped into his hands once more and he walked off.

“Don’t worry about it -It’ll be alright -its not that bad” I called after, more desperately as my hand found first gear and my foot eased down on the accelerator.

“Good luck” was my final authoritative gesture as I sped away, praying I wouldn’t end up back at that crossroads once again.

Thankfully I didn’t.

Growing up I had three brothers. Still do, but we don’t live together anymore. Well anyway, it was every man for himself in the underwear department. Yes we shared underwear. When it was clean at least. It was touch & go if you ever found any around.

Believe me I find that as awful now as you, but when it’s the norm you don’t see anything wrong with it.

Anyway, after I moved out (aged around 21) one of my younger brothers (aged around 16) moved in to my room. We were talking some weeks/ months later and he looked at me as though in pain.

“Did you have to take all the underwear with you?” he cried.

I assured him I took a couple of pairs of socks and underpants at most. He was always convinced I got up as early as a German tourist to hog the lot. No amount of persuading could ever convince him I had as much trouble as he did, only I didn’t cry as loud about it (maybe I wasn’t as bothered, I don’t remember to be honest.)

“I was convinced when you moved out I’d get a much greater share of the underpantses -like coming into an inheritance!” he said proudly. “But there’s still never any there! …My mam bought a load more, but there’s still never any to be found!” (We both knew he was more devious and underpants-conscious than either of the other two, so it was a mystery unsolved -to this day in fact).

He left me that evening with these heartfelt parting words: “I thought I’d find a secret underpants compartment in your room, or a stash down the back of the wardrobe or someplace. I never believed you never had any underpantses either!”

***

…Actually, I’m reminded of one particular incident where I came out of the shower and found the last spare washed underpants in a clothes-pile in the kitchen.

A half hour later, this same brother came out of the shower and began screaming that I robbed all the underpantses again. He could not be convinced otherwise.

“What am I supposed to do now!?” he cried and stomped around the house.

Eventually he shut up enough to listen to my suggestion… “Put on that one,” I said to him pointing into the dirty clothes basket at the one I removed earlier. “I only wore it one day!”

Of course he was disgusted -even we had our limits, but after a while he calmed down some more.

“One day?” he said eventually.

“Two at the most!” I assured him.

I like to think I’m a fairly fair equal-rights kinda guy. I tidy things around the house, make dinners, put away the dishes, etc., wash the odd pot, go shopping, look after the kids -homework, play, etc.. I’m a bit of a house-all-rounder you could say, but I have to admit Mrs. Rumm is better at some of the above than yours truly. And I have to admit I don’t mind at all to admit that.

I realise it’s not OK to admit that and leave it at that in this day and age, but we all have our talents and specific likes, dislikes and phobias. No matter what I do, at times Mrs. Rumm will undo and redo it to her liking. Best of luck to her I say. As I said, I’m an equal rights kinda guy. I’d never stand in her way in having something done precisely as she feels is needed. It’s true that she does some things best -by best I mean, to a degree where we can both be satisfied.

Similarly, I’m the go-to guy when the grass needs cutting, lightbulbs changing, TV & electronics setups, computers, DIY (to a degree), etc.. I don’t think Mrs. Rumm has ever attempted to put up a shelf in all our years together. But I’m not bitter. As I say, I’m an equal rights kinda guy, but I’m nothing if not fair. She has no interest in these things and it’s not worth the hassle overseeing her trying to cut the hedge anyway.

Nobody set the rules to these unwritten tasks or who has to do them. Or to what degree. They might not suit everybody in the house at all times, but on the whole, there is something of an understanding when it comes to who-does-what. More or less.

But for the life of me, there is one item in the house I cannot fathom:

…The washing machine!

The thing makes no sense believe me!

Mrs. Rumm sometimes leaves little instruction notes for me if she puts something in but has no time to wait before going out. The notes look something like this:

Rince 10 (she can’t spell rinse you see)

Drain 13

Spin 5

Spin 5

…Like, HUH?

It seems one has to return to this device every few minutes to set it to the next task. Are ALL washing machines like this?? How is one expected to know such things?? Even looking at the above note (which she left for me this morning) I had to ring her for a decryption key. Were the numbers associated with the length of time on each setting? It appears not -they’re the numbers on the dial on the machine.

I was busy at that precise time I was speaking with her, so I said I’d do it in a while. Of course despite my best intentions, this minute lasted a while longer. But eventually I remembered and set it to Rinse -number 10 setting. Mrs. Rumm had added this would take 10 – 15 minutes.

So off I went and got busy elsewhere.

Another few hours elapsed before I remembered and had time to do step 2: Drain 13…

…Well, you get my drift.
Honestly, this thing must have been designed by a woman who thinks we all think like that, or by a man who thinks women think like that. Maybe they do. How would I know??

But all’s I know is if more men used washing machines more of the time (I know -many do) then this kind of come-back-to-the-font-time-and-again nonsense wouldn’t wash for very long.

Can you think of any tasks best suited to women -or men? Or any tasks traditionally done by men that women would do better? And vice versa.

I realise I’ll be sneered at and worse for even rincing this topic, but thought it worth spinning round to see what drains.

I had a  problem with Being John Malkovich. I loved its originality and its “fun-ness”, but I didn’t engage with the movie ultimately. I watched it a second time to make sure and yup, second time around I found it even more lacking. It was as hollow as the inside of John Malkovich’s head -the movie’s John Malkovich I mean of course.

I haven’t seen Human Nature yet, despite the DVD being on my shelf for quite some time. Soon.

Adaptation seemed a little too aware of itself. I enjoyed it a lot, but it felt a bit forced at times -as though the driving thought was “how can we take this a step further?” rather than “what is real for this world?”

I’ll have to watch Eternal Sunshine of The Spotless Mind again, because I only saw it once and I think that was spoilt for me slightly by wearing (not great) headphones so as not to disturb the sleeping family upstairs. I liked the movie’s sadness and regret and its “struggle to do better”/ to rectify a lost relationship before it’s too late, etc., but again (with the cheap headphones proviso as a gimme) I felt like I was an outsider looking through a window at someone else.

That’s not something I can say about Synecdoche New York, the first Charlie Kaufman film made by Charlie Kaufman.

It’s not about me or anyone I know. It’s not even about the main character (“Caden Cotard”). It’s about living. Or at least, about living a life trying to know oneself.

It sounds a bit high-falutin’ I know -and I know some people don’t/ won’t/ don’t want to get it and that’s fine by me. I’m not saying everyone has to get it by any means, but I’d like to state for the record that it’s a lovely lovely film and I should have made it my business to see it when it played for a wet week in a distant creaky cinema some vague time ago in my not-so-distant past.

It’s quite hard to say any more about the movie because I think it’s the kind of movie that you feel rather than understand. In some ways understanding it and analysing it kind of defeats the purpose. It’d be like feeling sad, then afterwards looking for a reason to be sad. In a way, if you found that reason it wouldn’t measure up to the feeling you had before you found it.

It’s also the kind of movie that those who love it prefer not to say so, because

a) it’s personal -and “nobody else will feel this way about it anyway” -and “it sounds a bit lovey and artsy fartsy when I try to describe it” -and “I don’t know how to describe what I think about it anyway because I don’t even undestand it” -and “I just don’t want to” (not in an apathetic way, but in a selfish way -”this is my movie and I’m not sharing it with you”).

and

b)  it’s the kind of movie you get spat at for recommending to others when they rent it out and demand you pay them their money back for the rental and two hours spent viewing, not to mention the emotional trauma of sitting through something so off the wall.

and

c) friends will hate you and will be steadfastly convinced you hate the movie and that you feel “superior” and you only say you love it because it’s an independent movie that’s not a Hollywood blockbuster. And they thought it was a piece of shit.

And who needs that self-alienation? Friends should hate you for what you do, not for an ephemeral ‘other’ …best save up those “reasons I give my friends to hate me” for something that is actually me.

.

So, Synecdoche New York is a great film. But I’m not recommending you see it unless you’re ready to see it. It’s not a hard movie to watch. It’s not artsy fartsy. It’s not humorless. It’s just ununderstandable. In a good way. In a way that is fun to think about. And to feel.

In fact, I think you should see it. You owe it to yourself. Pay for it too. Send me the bill.

I won’t pay the bill of course, but I’ll frame it and say “I did a good deed” whenever I look at your bill on my wall. And a little part of me will think of you too when I look at that bill. In fact you could say, your bill will make you famous for a lifetime to at least one other individual.

Go on. Buy Synecdoche New York on DVD or Blu Ray or whatever today. And send me the bill.

.

.

….And one last piece of advice: DO NOT WATCH IT IN PIECES.
Wait until you have two full hours to spare without distraction (as best you can guess), put it on, then watch it to the end. You might feel like switching off, if only for a cup of tea, but I urge you to stay sitting and stay watching. It’ll be worth it. Don’t stop Don’t pause. Like all the best things, this movie builds. You can’t possibly appreciate that construction by stopping and starting.

Synecdoche New York -best film in yeeeeaars.

It’s never the big things that get to us. Well, maybe it is, but the small things can be just as upsetting…

I bought two beanbags a couple of months ago. The first time “the cousins” called round, a week or two later, all the kids had a diving match on them. As a result both bags were somewhat deflated and virtually unusable. I/ we had sore backs and sore arses from sitting on them/ on the floor thereafter. So I filled one with the other and resolved to buy some more ‘beans’ soon. Today, over a month later, I went and bought those beans. It didn’t have to be today, but well, if not today then when?

They came in a clear-plastic bag around 5ft tall/ 2ft wide.
25euros -sheesh! But that’s not the worst of it. I haven’t even begun -patience!

I brought the bag home and set it against the wall in the room nearest the front door. As one does.

I didn’t have much time before I had to collect my son from school, so I forgot about the bag o’beans. As one does.

Went and picked him up, then returned home. I had also forgotten his friend was coming with us today. No problem there.

So we get in the door, put down the bags, etc. and within 2 minutes there was a call for me to come quickly… You no doubt guessed it… the bag o’beans had sprung not one but two holes -one in the middle, the other near the bottom. Clearly my son had taken it upon himself to play punch bags (as his friend intimated, but I didn’t want to hear any more at that time).

I tried resting it in a position where the beans stopped pouring out, but though I was successful eventually, my actions increased the flow in the short-term. I wanted to cry. I kind of surprised myself at how upset I was. Yes it was distressing, but ultimately it’s a small problem I know.

Still I was very near real tears and feelings of total inadequacy. I scolded the boy of course -somewhat vociferously as you can imagine. He was cowed by this, but it must be said he wasn’t too bothered. His friend however looked like he wanted to go home, so I closed the door to that room and told them not to go in there for the rest of the day.

A half hour later or so (after I calmed down) I thought I’d take another look. “Sure how bad could it be?” …As soon as I opened the door again, I again felt depressingly helpless. It’s not that the whole bag had emptied across the floor, but it was clear anything I might do to clear it was going to result in more spillage. I got an extra-large black plastic bag from another room and lifted the bag o’beans into it, which of course saw more spurts of tiny aero-beans everywhere.

I could now hear it pouring into the black bag at an alarming rate, but at least it was into the bag now and not on the floor. “How did you manage to make those holes?” I demanded to know, at last feeling like I might be able to handle the answer. “He dived onto it!” his friend pronounced (with serious and weighty glee).

This set me off again, pleading with the 4 year old (5 in a couple of months) to have mercy on his poor father, threatening him with consequences should he not mend his ways, yelping at his lack of undivided concern at the melting of the universe his actions had set into motion.

Just then I thought of something… I was supposed to pick up my daughter at 3PM! I rushed to the kitchen and you can imagine my sheer and utter panic as I saw the time… 3:22!

AAAARRRRRRHHHHHHHHHHHEEEEEEIIIIIIIIIIIII!!!!!!

To put it mildly, the boys were bundled into the car and a new trail of blazing rubber was burnt through the road. It usually takes 10 minutes to get to the school. I don’t know how long it did take, but 3:22 itself was 20 minutes too late -and I wasn’t even there yet!

She was the last one left, but thankfully a mother of another child had waited with her. I couldn’t even begin to explain why I was late (although I tried -and failed). “Sure don’t worry -it happens to us all” said the mother with a cheery wave.

On the way home, my daughter began with the “where were you?s” and I just wanted to die. What made me feel even worse (like an infinite mandelbrot set, dig deeper and this thing has layers on layers that never end and each one is as stupid and pointless as the last) was that I had updated the firmware on my phone earlier that morning. Usually an alarm goes off at 2:45 to remind me to pick her up, but because of this update the alarm had been wiped.

Stoopid is as stoopid does and believe me today was me at my STOOOPID WORST. It was the perfect storm of Mischeviousness + Stoopidity + Timing + Lack of Timing + Sheer Panic +Bad Luck.

And today is only Monday.

Writing with a view to publishing is a kind of conceit. It has to be. Who would write if not for the belief it was worth someone else’s time, effort and/or hopefully money to read it?

To slave for many months formulating a mass of words with careful precision, without prior knowledge or care of a ready and willing market is at best a form of naïve arrogance.

“Of course they will love it if I do, for I know Greatness when I see it!”

This may indeed be true, but it overlooks the fact that they need to know it’s there before they can buy it –or buy into it even.

_

“But at least publishers and agents will read it when I send it to them and will recognise its unique brilliance and a bidding war will soon ensue!”

This, as one discovers is not quite the reality of the world in which we live.

When writing to such bodies/people you need to “sell it”, providing a concise-as-possible hook for them to bite on, as well as selling yourself. It helps if you are a one-armed Polynesian lesbian dwarf with a diverse and lengthy career and experience. As every publisher/ agent knows, this is a hook in itself for reporters and media presenters to latch onto in order to ‘inspire the market’.
Very rarely is the hook about the book.

So as you gather your résumé and try to make yourself look exciting or at the very least interesting, you realise that you are not that interesting or exciting on paper (even if you are Mr. Charisma or Ms. DahlingOfAll in person).

“Who cares about me?” you yell at that subconscious niggle you are otherwise ignoring –“it’s all about the book!” The book and its clear brilliance is the only thing that matters. That’s what people will be paying for after all!

So you prepare a synopsis that describes the story, before realising this synopsis captures none of the fun or imagination or depth or soul of the work you have slaved over. It reads like directions to a toilet.

_

“But at least the synopsis gives some kind of indication of the work –and anyway, the extract will sell it in itself!”

This is where you realise your book –your sweet and gorgeous bundle of supreme joy– is not the loudest in the room. It doesn’t scream and scramble-for attention. Nor does it demand it amid the chaos. It doesn’t sing and dance like the annoying guy at a party who everyone loves until he throws up on the rug; who you find next morning in your bathroom as you throw back the shower curtain, still singing and still dancing, with the water running, wearing your wife’s underwear; who rings you at work later in the week, still singing that annoying Macarena song you were so enthralled with after fourteen tequila sunrises. Now you owe him a favour because he entertained you so much. More importantly, now you will do anything to get him to shut up and to move him on. …And was there anyone else at that party? A shy witty guy attempting a subdued and possibly meaningful banter with the mantelpiece perhaps? Nah, don’t remember him.

_

“Yeah but can you be more specific about difficulties getting to a publisher?”

So anyway, I completed my first book in 1999. It was an overwhelming experience for me. I loved it dearly (still do) and couldn’t be happier if it had been an actual flesh and blood child. It was perfect. Still is –even more so.

I had waited until then to think of sending it off. To make a long story short, I discovered what was to be done next and did so over the next two years. Two or three chapters were to be sent to an agency or publishers, along with a cover letter and personal details. Three months later, on average, a publisher would reply saying “get an agent” and an agent would reply saying “we are totally full at the moment and couldn’t take on another author under any circumstances –call back within five minutes of one of our authors dying… with a number of books in that same style.”

There were some words of encouragement here and there (which one is advised to accept at face value, since nobody in the business wants to encourage a person they feel doesn’t have at least the basic skills), but the gist of it was “thanks, but no thanks”.

Most agencies receive hundreds of submissions each week, you see. If your sample chapters don’t captivate and/or your target audience isn’t clearly defined, or if an agency doesn’t deal in this specific type of book (and doesn’t want to), or if you can’t define the specific type or age-group you are aiming at, or if you made a mess of your cover-letter, trying to be too smart or it struck a wrong chord with the wrong agent (or more likely student reader) or the submission-before your one put the reader in a bad mood, or the weather suddenly turned overcast and she/he was hoping to have a nice weekend, or… you get the idea. Your baby, your masterpiece has maybe one chance in a hundred to be given anything close to any serious consideration, depending on any number of events beyond your control –and that’s even before a person peeks in your envelope to see if your presentation captivates at that precise time. ..One in a hundred thousand of even being read I would guess.

_

What’s that you say? Your book is a masterpiece of understated subtlety?

I have news for you… it’ll die on a trolley in an over-crowded emergency room as a phalanx of ingrown toenail and tennis elbow patients scream and beg and bribe their way to the front of the queue.

I’m not saying do as they do. I’m saying unless you are already inside you don’t get inside by being the meek and unassuming nice person you are striving to be. If you’re willing to put that person aside for the sake of your “career” in writing, then start writhing on the floor and holding your breath and kicking the ground like a spoilt and/or autistic two year old pronto. That tends to get attention.

_

After two years or so of submissions I was all but spent. All the time I was editing and tweaking the text in the book and in the synopsis and the cover letter, etc..

It didn’t help that the synopsis was vague no matter how I worded it. It didn’t help that the book, essentially is about a man who does nothing. Always.

It doesn’t help that the only way to understand what the book is about is to read the goddamned book –if I could have written it as short as a synopsis the book would be that length!

_

“I’ve read and enjoyed books where nothing much (and everything) happens throughout. I know there is a market for it –but who are these people who, like me, enjoy something not easy to define? How can this market be found and tapped into?”

Damned if I know.

And to be fair, I don’t blame the publishing industry. I understand it’s hard to make a buck without a specific target in mind. This is why virtually all books (and movies and tv shows and channels and anything else now) are geared to very specific sectors.

_

So I kept tweaking the book itself. Some friends read it –and eventually some friends of friends who didn’t know me. A pattern was established: around 60% of the people who started to read it could never finish it and could never really give an answer why –“it’s not the book –the book is great… I just don’t have the time right now” was the typical feedback from this sector (believe me I went out of my way to find ‘cranky’ people who would not have a problem telling me off if they didn’t like it).

A worrying number of people simply clammed-up, ignoring any questions I posed or emails I sent on the topic.

One person absolutely hated it and refused to read further than a few chapters. I really enjoyed this reaction, although I’m pretty sure she would change her mind on it if she ever read it to the end.

Of the remaining 40% (ie. those who read it to the end), not one person was anything less than overwhelmed or excited or “in love” with the book.

Almost all men (aged 30+ ish) who read it felt it was about them –mostly the ones I never met. This was a reason to read it for some/ the main reason it was too painful to read for others.
Most people who know me who read it felt it was about me (not true! not true!!)

Most people who read it were (/are?) female. Haven’t you heard? Only females read fiction anymore. (I have my own views on why this is, but too distracting to talk about now).

Females who read it to the end seem to love it for wildly different reasons –some because it’s “a feminist book”, some because it’s a skit on the pathetic nature of men, some because it captures the infuriating strength of a man within a relationship –even if he is ‘useless’ –and the book refuses to acknowledge the fact that the man is an idiot –indeed it goes a long way to proving the opposite. Who is right?

Such ambiguity is unseemly and never lends itself to a world where everything needs to be targeted to a particular audience. How can the book be targeted to feminists and men at the same time? The main character spouts a lot of crap –but curiously often it’s brilliant crap. Almost always it’s both crap and brilliant at the same time –even in the same sentence!

Is it meant to be taken seriously by the reader? I don’t know, but I have fun reading it. How can this book be marketed as “literature” when it is at times so devoid of literary quality and panders to the basest of thoughts and actions?

_

Anyway, you see the dilemma –the book is the best book ever written, but it’s impossible to know it without reading it. It’s called The High Kicking Kung Fu Soccer Playing Bunny Rabbit Tree and you can read it for free from HERE …but don’t go there yet -I’ll stick another link to it at the end -promise!

I hope to have it re-printed, cheaper and in different font, with different cover, etc. at some stage, but for now…

_

“Yeah yeah -get on with it -how do I get published?”

So after five long years of editing and half-dreaming of literary success, I felt I had to put this book behind me somehow. It was becoming impossible for me to move on. I had to draw a line under it. With that in mind I had it published, print-on-demand.

This doesn’t cost a whole lot –a few hundred euros. For that, almost all online bookstores worldwide will list the book and as orders are made the book is printed and shipped –ie. no stock necessary.

Even mainstream titles are often now “stocked” in this way. You might well have some on your bookshelf already.

I didn’t like doing it, but I did it for my sanity. I felt I would never write another book until I could see this one “finished”.

_

“So you learnt that lesson, eh? -Stay out of the fire if you can’t handle the kitchen!”

No sooner did I send the final pieces off to the publishers than I found myself “inspired” almost overnight to begin work on a new book. It was a miracle! –I hadn’t been able to write as much as a paragraph unrelated to The High Kicking Kung Fu Soccer Playing Bunny Rabbit Tree for nigh-on five years, now the words were pouring out of me. From first thing in the morning to last thing at night I did little else but write, write, write.

And it all felt right. I knew it was right. This was going to sell beyond a shadow of a doubt. This was an amazing story and the world would recognise it as such, so there was no need for me to go out and “push” the first book. Even though this second bore no relation to it, it would help sell the first one. I was absolutely, positively certain. How could I not be? The words were flowing from my fingertips to the keyboard quicker than I knew what they were saying, but when I read them back they made complete sense.

The broad outline of the story was in my head. The specifics of what was going to happen next was known (by me) roughly ‘two chapters ahead’. ie. As I typed the words that were being dictated to me from one part of my brain, another part was ‘seeing’ for the first time –and noting down– what was happening two chapters ahead.

Each day I was brimming with enthusiasm and a kind of giddy nervousness –what if I didn’t do it justice? What if I couldn’t make it to the end?

The one thing I had no doubt about was its mass appeal and the story’s own perfection. It wasn’t like any other book ever written and it was still al lot of fun from beginning to end, capable of being enjoyed on many levels if desired by the reader. In short: It was clearly a masterpiece!
…The doubts were only to do with my own involvement in its birth.

_

This nervous excitement and persistent disgorging of words and sentences and paragraphs and pages and chapters continued from August to April virtually non-stop.

[…There was one break for around two-weeks where I couldn’t figure out how the characters got from ‘Point P to Point R’ –ie. I didn’t know what ‘Point Q’ was, but I knew all the rest. That was quite worrying for a while.]

Finally, a few weeks before the birth of my son in 2005 the novel was finished. There was only ever one name for it: OOYAY. What else could it be called? It makes no sense to anyone who hasn’t read it, but to date everyone who I’ve heard from who have read it can’t think of a better title –or any title– to do it justice.

_

Months after the elation and relief and the sweat and the fear and anxiety of not being able to do it and the adrenalin wore off I was dumbfounded at the lack of response from the agent I had ‘chosen’. When finally a curt reply arrived I was knocked sideways. How could this be possible? The book was written by a higher authority than me –I had merely channelled the tale and set it down. But now, it was being ignored? How could that be even possible??

Once again I found myself trawling through agencies and publishers. Some gave a nod and recognised that it ‘sounds’ original, though none chose to read more than the submitted chapters. “Not for us”.

Usually I sent the submission to the main branch of an agency or publisher, but would receive a reply from the Children’s Dept.. Herein lay my old friend: Target audience.

I’ve heard everywhere that now more than ever the growing sector in the publishing world is “Kids books for Adults”, but still it didn’t seem like the publishing industry is/was geared for it.

There’s the ‘Under 9 year old’ section.
There’s Teenage/ Young Adult section.
There’s Adult, which is has its own sub-divisions.

Which one is Ooyay? None… All.

Is it “Fantasy”?  Yes –NO! Not really. No.

OK, Ooyay is a small blue dog. And he kind of… talks. BUT the book isn’t about Ooyay himself, I hasten to add. Ooyay is not the main character!
…What else would a serious, over-worked and thoughtful agent do but immediately pass such a submission onto the Children’s Department?
Obviously, the children’s department notes that it doesn’t feature blood & guts so it’s not for boys. It doesn’t feature love-interest dashing boys, so it’s not for girls. NEXT!

_

Truth is, for me, Ooyay is about growing up and experiencing life in all its thrilling unpredictability, and putting aside childish things, and learning to cope and surf through the unpredictable nature of everything –and coming to a kind of peace within oneself, which is both familiar from childhood itself and alien to everything you’ve ever been taught. There is a kind of contradictory bargain to be struck between the child and the adult within us all–

“I won’t pester you and prod at the inside of your eyeball and nag you with childish thoughts and perhaps painful memories all of your life, if you only play with me once in a while,” cries the child.

Ignore this voice at your peril.

So, this is a fun book for youngsters, but it’s a fun and more deeply emotional ride for adults. It sticks with the reader long after the last page has been turned –something I struggle to find in most works of published fiction these days.

_

Again, nobody has read it to the end without coming forward with anything less than ‘top marks’ –friends and strangers alike. It has garnered 5 star reviews from each online book-review site that agreed to review it (check amazon.com and amazon.co.uk). Everyone loves it!

How then do I reach a fraction of its potential audience?

I’m not a salesman or businessman or analyst. How the hell would I know?

_

So people who’ve read either (or both) ask me how the next one is coming along. Worse, people who’ve never read either ask me when the next one is coming…

It’s coming. Slowly. In truth I’ve started and re-started a few different ones. There is one in particular I think would/will be amazing –if I can do it justice. But it’s a lot of pain and heartache to rush off down the path of writing (at least when you’re determined to write things that have never been written before). It’s a path I’m not eager to traverse yet again at such a breakneck speed –but traverse it I definitely will. I just need to recover some part of that naïve arrogance I had ten years ago when I wrote the first one, if I’m ever to do so quickly.

If that never happens I’m happy to plod along at the slow pace, building the work brick by brick. Eventually it will be a sight to behold, I have no doubt.

Until then, it gives me untold joy when I hear any reaction to either of my books.

_

The High Kicking Kung Fu Soccer Playing Bunny Rabbit Tree by K. Michael Forde is available as a free download here. Or from almost any online book retailer (that price is too expensive I know -I hope to be able to make it cheaper sometime in the future, in the meantime this edition will be a collector’s item one day believe me)

Ooyay by Stanley Rumm can be downloaded free here until 31^st of December 2009. The official Ooyay website is here.