Moving Out

As imminent as my own moving out is, this isn’t about me. This morning I awoke pre 8 o’clock which was far too early considering I drank 2 bottles of wine against my will last night. Regardless, I lay in bed unable to drift back to sleep and slowly got up. This morning something was different, though, after months of silence and consequently a mutual time of ignoring each other, my Mexican jumping beans had stirred. One of them had hatched completely and I was greeted by his little face sitting atop the bean he’d been living in for many months.

Considering how long they’d been silent for, I had assumed they’d not matured successfully and died in their beans. But obviously they’re hardly little critters and three have now squeezed their way out into this blustery grey Bournemouth day we’ve been blessed with.

They couldn’t have timed this much better, really, and I’m sure some people would put it down to some kind of fate or such nonsense, but I just marvel at the coincidence that they have hatched on the last full day I will live in Cranborne. If they had hatched tomorrow I would have been on a train home and missed the action, if it had been yesterday I would have been at university nailing an exam about comedy in Look Back in Anger and why Stevie Smith is anti-poetic.

It’s also fairly incredible that these moths’ eggs were laid over 5,500 miles away in Mexico in the flower of the Sebastiana pavoniana (thanks Wikipedia) tree. So it’s pretty sad for them, really. They’re expecting to wriggle out into near-equatorial temperatures, yet they’re greeted by my large face leering at them and only occasional snippets of blue sky when the wind dictates.

Well, it seems that they’re not too polite or grateful for my hosting as I just looked at one of them (yes, you’re getting up-to-the-minute updates here!) and he seems to be have defected on my windowsill. I’m fairly sure this isn’t a customary system to tell your host of your displeasure regarding your accommodation, but I think it should be adopted. If you find your hotel room is a little dirty or untidy, instead of complaining to reception – which rarely gets anything done – simply smear your faeces on and around the windows. That’ll show them.

Now I’ve got to go and clean the flat as, as I mentioned earlier, I’m moving out. Farewell Cranborne.

Here are a few pictures from the hatching that I thought were quite nice.

Enjoy. (Click for high resolution)

Sleeping's Massively Overrated Anyway...

For some peculiar reason, in recent weeks there has been a fire alarm bonanza in Cranborne. Any time of day or night seems fine, but it's becoming inevitable that we'll have to evacuate our home at least once a week or - as it was a few weeks ago - five times in four days.

The increasing dullness and frustration that each fire alarm brings, I feel, cannot be healthy - the howling sound that once cut through me, alerting me to the possibility of a life-threatening danger, has become a screech that batters my ears and fails to excite any adrenaline in me whatsoever.

One early morning this spiteful little alarm didn't even manage to stir me from my bed - I awoke in the morning with a vague memory of something happening - my subconscious seemingly made the decision for me to simply ignore the so-called warning, and my innocent being was left in the firing line for danger.

This brings me nicely onto my next, and main, point. I would like to extend a plea to anyone and everyone who might set off a fire alarm to cease. Not only because my usual sleeping patterns are being monstrously disrupted, but also because my future safety is being throw into harm's way. If, at any point in my life, I am damaged by fire I will have no choice but to blame every one of the cretins who has set off an alarm in my current home.

I feel I cannot merely send out this plea selfishly, although that is the main reason I'm doing this, as we usually have at least two fire engine attending the little ceremony in the car park. It is not uncommon for four of these machines to turn up, loaded with firemen ready to save us - although from the look of most of them, getting up to my 7th floor flat, bursting through an inferno, locked doors and all manner of danger, finding me and transporting safely back down the 112 stairs to terra firma would be out of the question. They seem far more content sitting uselessly in their fire engine as the imaginary fire tears through Cranborne and its residents are all safely downstairs already.

Regardless of firemen's beer bellies and my imminent burning to death, I would like nothing more than for these alarms to stop. I need my sleep!

Good day