Monday, 12 December 2016

Me, myself and I'm starting again.

So, on with the first exercise, I posted a short story in the meantime, I don't think it's up to the standard I'm aiming for but then that's the point of all this work.

Chapter one is very readable, but this is essentially a book of exercises so I can't just give them away, you need to go and buy the book. You could infer the questions from the answers in a kind of 'Jeopardy’ style but you’d be missing the all the context and build up. Trust me, it’s worth reading.
I’ve chosen a nickname of mine and written a few paragraphs about it.

‘Timmy Da Phish had a complicated birth. I played cricket, back when I lived in England, and if there’s one thing that cricketers obsess about it’s the weather. E-mails would be tossed back and forth between players in the days leading up to a crucial cup match discussing the fickle English weather. Having made his prediction, a team mate signed off ‘Kettles’ (an affectionate nickname of famous weatherman John Kettley). In return I signed my own prognostication Timmy Da Phish (After Michael Fish) and it stuck with me.
See original image 
Later, my team shirt had Da Phish (To save on letters) on the back and my e-mail account became Timmy_da_phish@****.com.

It is a comforting name that reminds me of playing cricket and of the team-mates and friends of that era. It has gone out of use now that I’m in France , which is sad but I still use it online from time to time, it’s apparently unique.

I look back on that time with a lot of fondness, the Real Oddies Cricket Club lived up to their name. We were the only team in the league that didn’t have a home town or village, we were a pub team (The Odd One Out Free House) and we found our players drinking in the lounge bar. As a result, we were not the most athletic or gifted cricketers but we were a wide range of characters.

Photo of The Odd One Out - Colchester, Essex, United Kingdom. Fully stocked!The pub itself was a blast from the 1970’s, sticky carpets, vinyl upholstered benches and no swearing in earshot of TL (The landlord). It hosted the meetings for The Socialist Worker’s Party and the local mental health self-help group. It also boasted the finest real ales in Colchester so attracted an altogether different crowd of ale aficionados. To say there were a few characters would be selling it rather short. From these fine specimens, we would select 11 able bodied men and women to play league standard cricket, very occasionally with spectacular success. Of course, there is a downside to this selection policy reflected in a scorecard (19 all out, almost certainly a league record low) a copy of which graces the wall of the lounge bar.

I believe it is all still going on.’

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