It’s only with hindsight that I realise what a ‘playground‘ London was for me from the mid-eighties (when becoming old enough to do as I pleased) to the late nineties; when changes started running so deep they were impossible to miss and/or ignore.
Author: N. P. Ryan
What a Waste (Tickets, Please)
“I could be a writer with a growing reputation; I could be the ticket man at Fulham Broadway Station. What a waste . . . What a waste.”
I used to walk past that ticket man made famous by Ian Dury’s lyrics on regular occasion. Going to and from Chelsea matches at Stamford Bridge. It was always a man, as I remember. Not that I paid too much attention.
Except for one particular game against Continue reading
What a Waste
I used to scroll past half-decent posts without so much as a meh. Now it’s me doing the posting, I want the world to care.
Catastrophe
A sad, tragic, dismal culmination of events that saw defeat snatched from the jaws of victory; the gods of genius not so much unfavourable . . . more kept at bay by a needy beast desperately determined to fulfil its own agenda. Continue reading
I Don’t Understand
Following on from Perfect, nobody is; all of us have something we don’t understand. But is that what’s meant when the words are said? Continue reading
Perfect
To some degree everything is the result of anxiety; perfection isn’t so much sought, but fraught after:
My Big Fat Status Update
We all know someone who posts them, but never do it ourselves . . . Continue reading
Dieting 17th Century Style
Thinking of going on a diet but not sure whether you can face the commitment/lack of overindulgence? Perhaps considering things from a 17th Century perspective might help make up thy mind?
The Magic of Christmas
Videos of surprised faces as pressies are opened; before and after pics of dinner, the pudding, and various alcoholic drinks likewise. All delivered instantaneously; not shown half-arsed Continue reading
Winter is Coming
Christmas is meant to be full of celebration and joy; for many, though, it can be a dark time brimming with morbidity and doom in a place far from fun and festivity.
Humbug, we say.
Bah humbug!
While calling these people Ebenezer Scrooge.
What the Dickens, then Continue reading
N. P. Ryan 