Journal

Great Expectations

Last Friday we went for Fliss‘ second scan to check that the baby was in good health, had all its limbs, organs – all that kind of thing. This is usually when you find out what sex it is, assuming you want to know.

We did want to know. We’d been looking forward to finding out. Fliss especially, and me almost as much, as I figured that learning the sex of the baby would instantly unlock that previously untapped part of my brain that equips you for fatherhood.

The baby had other ideas, mostly revolving around comfort and shyness. What other reason would you have for crossing your legs during a medical examination? Me? I would cite shyness as a very good reason, so I’ll give my future son/daughter a pass on this one.

Despite the best efforts of Fliss and the baby scanner lady, prodding away at her belly (Fliss‘ belly, not the baby scanner lady’s) in order to get some movement, the baby wasn’t giving away anything.

So that’s that – now we have to wait until the tail end of December to see what we’re getting. Almost fitting, really.

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The Chandler Gooding Reunion weekender

I’d gone down to London especially for this night out in Islington on the first weekend in August. I knew my former workmates Jess and Ray would be there, and possibly Rick too. Oh, and Dave, the director who made me redundant. Dave was leaving the company, too, so it was more of a leaving do for him than an actual reunion, as a lot of the people I’d hoped to see couldn’t make it.

Still, it was great to catch up with Jess, Ray (who still does his turn up late with a big entrance thing &ndash this time it was with cigars), and Rick, who turned up looking in great health, like some bronzed surfer dude. There were some others I hadn’t seen for years, or worked with at all, for that matter, but the common bond of having worked in the same place made for good company.

The evening seemed to whizz past at quite a pace. Before I knew it Rick had left to catch his infamous last train home, and the modest crowd had dwindled to a merry few. At one point I was drunk enough to tell Dave that I thought he was an honest, stand-up guy. Which was weird – I thought he was a lazy, problem dodging git when I worked with the company, but time heals all in this case, and looking back it’s easier to see why he played the role he did.

Danger, High Voltage
After saying farewell to Jess and Ray, I ended up in a gay club with Stuart Rae at Kings Cross. The reason being is that I was staying in cousin Iain’s room, but Stuart had the key and I needed to go and meet him at a location of his choice or end up roughing it. It later transpired that the room had been left open, a fact that Stuart did not disclose to me over the three hours of queer intrigue set to a soundtrack of immeasurable gayness that followed.

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Mechanically Recovered

“May Contain Nuts” said the sign clipped to the shelf of nuts and snacks in a store I was in recently. Really? I thought. I’d have been disappointed if I’d bought that packet of honey roasted cashews and peanuts and it hadn’t contained nuts.

I took a look at the selection of fresh sandwiches and pastries that would act as the pre-nut main course. Reading the small print on a chicken filled pie I recoiled at the line “Contains Mechanically Recovered Chicken”. Why would they need to do that?

Unless the chicken truck broke down on the way to the chicken preparation factory, and a helpful mechanic gave the chicken truck a tow, I didn’t see how “mechanically recovered” chicken could be a good thing. I’m not expecting them to lie to me – creating the impression that the chicken in the pastry was prepared by cheerful Oompa Loompas working at a factory where they tickle the chickens to death. Fact remains I’m eating a dead bird, so there’s no need to candy coat it for me. Although I do find myself wondering if that would be a tasty option!

Seriously, though; why would any food produce company interested in making a profit tell me that the chicken had been “mechanically recovered” in any shape or form?

Whatever that means, it’s hardly going to be nice. For me it conjures up images of whirling claws of metal tearing the very flesh from chickens that they didn’t have to kill first because the poor fuckers had heart attacks the second they set eyes upon on the mechanical recovery machine.

Actually, to answer my own question, it is only the quality food produce companies that do make a profit who tell you that kind of thing, albeit in small print, on the label.

Makes me wonder what the rest of them get up to. I mean, if they’ll admit to mechanical recovery, what macabre practices aren’t they telling us about? Mechanical recovery of anything sounds absolutely grim, but something like, say Electrically De-Sphinctered would have me running from the aforementioned food outlet with puke squirting between the fingers of a two handed attempt to keep the previous meal on the inside.

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