I Think I Need To Recharge My Batteries

Modern life is proving anything but easy in Vincent towers despite the reckless purchase of an array of devices designed to put me on easy street and make my life virtually stress free. The flaw you see is the fact that all of these aids are either powered by mains electricity or they are battery operated and require frequent charging. Now as well as consuming half the power available from the national grid on a regular basis and the subsequent energy bills received matching the national debt of Botswana, I am becoming more and more concerned that my home is never allowed to sleep, there being too many LED charging lights illuminating every room at all hours, making the hallway seem more akin to an airport runway and the other living areas overrun by a hoard of 4 gang extension sockets.

This has led on to a feeling that my little house may not be the castle I once considered it to be, to put it bluntly I have become acutely aware that this house, my home, is no longer fit for purpose. That is to say 21st century living cannot be effectively maintained in this 1960's ex council house as amended by a 1990's re-wiring job.

Just a few short years ago all was well, we lived in relative harmony with our surroundings. We worried not that we didn't have the latest trappings of affluent consumerism, there was no home cinema system requiring a television the size of a garage door to appreciate the luxury of wide screen, nor did we see the need to be permanently hooked up to the world wide web like some Hammer Horror human spiders. Life was slower and uncomplicated, though gradually we began calling our friends and family less on land lines and started texting instead on our new Nokia androids, at least when the variable or completely absent signal strength would allow.

Suddenly it now seems that there are not enough electrical sockets in the walls to allow the charging of the myriad of communication gadgets which have become central to living in modern times. Smart phones, tablets and laptops adorn nearly every bit of table and worktop space, giving it the appearance of the bridge of the star trek enterprise. There is always something on charge, with a lead stretching out in readiness to snare the leg of any unwary passer by and send them crashing to the ground, with a charger so hot I need oven gloves to remove it from the wall lest I receive third degree burns. If its not a charger plugged in its a docking station for some other gizmo which apparently we cannot do without, and all of these things seem to consume battery power at an incredible rate and require charging far sooner than the manufacturer led us to believe.
It gets no better upstairs, where electric toothbrushes, hair straighteners, razors, epilators and hair dryers all vie for a spare socket.
No, there's nothing for it, I'll have to move. I'm going online at once and view the available houses!

Well I will as soon as the laptops  charged up!

The Former Lord Of The Dance

Readers of the chronicles may be a little surprised to discover that I have always considered myself a bit of a mover and groover. Suffice to say as a young man, when co-ordination could mostly be relied upon and I could move my legs for more than a few minutes without pulling a muscle I would often be found prowling the dance floors and disco's in and around my home town, 'presenting my moves' or 'throwing some shapes' as we used to say.

 Although vaguely reminiscent of an extra from the set of footloose, I considered myself to be more akin to a strutting peacock doing a little bit of showboating. Indeed I considered I had a collection of moves that even the great Michael Jackson himself would have been envious of! I was especially proud of my step over pirouette on one leg which is still remembered fondly by myself and.....well just me really.

This rhythmic cavorting had only one purpose, which was to present my 'talent' and associated wares to the assembled ladies and hope that they were slightly the worse for wear due to copious consumption of alcohol and had sufficient strength beer goggles on to appreciate the finer aspects of the good ship chirps. They would then form an orderly queue in the hope to be the girl chosen to accompany me home. 

It seems however that a queue is not a queue unless there are people in it, and I am left totally baffled as to why I would invariably end the night eating a kebab while waiting in line for a taxi with my mates. This was even more galling when the aforementioned 'mates' would all be literally crying with laughter at the apparent failure of the step over pirouette on one leg resulting in my discovering break dancing years before it ever became popular culture as I crashed to the floor with one leg still turning like a helicopter rotor blade!

So fast forward 30 years to Heebie jeebies nightclub in Liverpool at three o'clock on a Friday morning. Needless to say our group of shall we say 'mature' years must have looked like the cast of cocoon on a night out when we walked in to a heaving mass of mostly student revellers, most of whom looked to have had more sambuca's than was clinically safe.

To my, and likely everybody else's relief the place is packed so there is no chance of the step over pirouette on one leg, thus saving the likely embarrassment and general mayhem that would surely have followed, plus the money the NHS would have had to shell out to put me back together again afterwards!

Nevertheless I am strangely caught up in the modern club music sound which I can only describe as Zombie house garage thump, everything seems to pulsate and oscillate and there is a strobe light which seems capable of performing laser eye surgery at 50 feet thus nullifying the need to ever go to spec savers again.

I soon realise that my companions have all started to move their bodies in a strange and somewhat amusing way and before long I can feel that I too have started an alcohol induced rhythmic swaying which if left unchecked will likely degenerate into middle aged man twerking, which some of you will know is somewhat unsightly and frankly disturbing!

Despite this obvious danger I begin to move my arms in a way which I am convinced demonstrates my superb body popping ability, sadly it only served to demonstrate my undeniable drink spilling ability and alerted a young lady nearby who had clearly recently completed a first aid course and is convinced I am having a seizure.

Fortunately our group contained two consultant physicians so I was able to elicit a second opinion which was rather fortunate because though it did not provide me with a totally clean bill of health, it was enough to make my young saviour desist from wrestling me to the ground to place me in the recovery position!

So it was at 3.23am on that Friday morning that I had the latest in a long series of light bulb moments. I realised that I was no longer king of clubs, no longer the Lord of the dance, there was to be no more step over pirouettes on one leg. With a heavy heart and an equally heavy head I filed quietly to the entrance, said goodnight to the doormen and disappeared into the night,... to queue for a cab.