Isao Tomita bought an early Moog synthesiser in the early-nineteen-seventies; created the delightful album 'Snowflakes Are Dancing' – of Debussy's music – and released it in 1974. It was done the hard way – recording one-note-at-a-time.

Seminal, groundbreaking, etc. Look it up. Really.

My uncle bought the album; I listened to it over and over, played on a Radiogram. A lovely, mellifluous sound. We inherited the vinyl collection when my uncle and auntie passed away.

Unfortunately we sold it all as the digital age intervened, the lack of convenience made the bulky collection quickly obsolete. Or so we thought. It'd be worth a fortune now. We thought the same about audio cassettes too. The CD, DVD and its derivatives will go the same way, of that I've no doubt.

Last year I repurchased Snowflakes Are Dancing. Or, more accurately, bought it for the first time. My first time.

Headphones on, volume elevated; it's, if not pure joy, at least an unmeasurable pleasure. I can't think of suitably superlative adjectives. There's something missing though.

Digital perfection? Pah, it's overrated!

Tomita, RIP and thanks.

Incidental: yes, I am that old.

Last week I ordered a shirt. Not just any shirt, but a shirt of power, a shirt of mystical significance, a shirt to spark and fulfil dreams. It arrived last Thursday, the shirt I blogged about last week did. Yes.

So far:

• Even before it arrived, we got new neighbours,
• The shirt arrived,
• Thursday's takeaway dinner arrived 1/2 hour early,
• Paid for by my wife,
• It was lovely,
• My wife's been looking sideways at me every time I wear it,
• And sniggering.

(As I start this post I am wearing the shirt; this sniggering, it's not a normal day here!)

Um…

Not much else to report really.

The shirt size, it runs a little large. This 'Large' is a bit baggy, feels a bit like I'm wearing a dress. A large, purple, tie-dyed dress with a front bearing an artistic design depicting 3 Wolves howling at the moon.

Um…

Tomorrow, as they say, is another day. I'd promised to wear it the shirt at work last Friday; it's dress-down on Fridays.

I could not.

It's not large, purple, tie-dyed with a front bearing 3 Wolves howling at the moon dress-down Friday.

I've an open mind, no-one would comment unfavourably, would they.

I've an open mind.

Ohhh no I haven't!

Maybe I should wash the thing, maybe its magic is activated somehow by the action of water, washing powder and agitation.

Hmmm…

And if it shrinks in the wash, hey…

My boss wore a work-commemorative T-shirt all day today; as these things do it got me thinking about life-changing events.

I made the first step today towards changing mine.

Not acknowledging a suppressed mid-life crisis, not starting a life of crime or male modelling (despite the incessant demands to), not even thinking of dressing on the other side, no.

So, whilst at work I ordered a Three Wolf Moon t-shirt from Amazon, yes.

It arrives sometime tomorrow and, though I may not have time to wash and dry it prior to dress-down Friday, I nevertheless intend to wear it.

Now, if anything I’ve read about the power inherent in the shirts is true, however minuscule its effects are for me… it’s fair to say I’m expecting great things.

After a reasonably productive day I arrived home.

Heck, we have new neighbours!

It’s started.

I've not decided which way, or if, I'll vote in the UK's local elections this week. A long standing Liberal Democrat I can't really see past the local candidate's pledge (if it is that) to provide the town with a theatre.

Er…

My upper school had a well-used theatre in the nineteen seventies, it's still used today. There are more important things to spend money on.

To be fair to him, he's not a local resident; previously a councillor in another district, he's probably unaware of much outside his area, and – and I'm guessing here – would rather have the theatre in the being-regenerated town centre.

Guessing.

No, with 2 days before the poll no day we've yet again had no leaflets spelling out LibDem hopes and dreams. Again to be fair my recent post slagging 'em off for a lack of info. at the local news site was addressed; all the candidates have' pitches' up. It's a start.

So, a post entitled 'Loony'?

I'd better see who else is up for election this time; you never know, someone might prove themselves worthy of…

…

Last weekend we went to Edinburgh, stopped 2 nights, had a really good time. I counted over 29,000 steps for the trip, feel better for it; a successful weekend all round.

Incidentally, allowing for her growth since our last city excursion, daughter 2 will have walked around 37,000 steps. We bowed to her request this time, caught a bus for at least a part of our look around the city!

On the way home…

We stop at a motorway services. I need a pee so visit the gents. Washing hands afterwards (fastidious, me) I get a handful of the fluffy soap and place my hand under the automatic tap.

Nothing.

Wave it about, touch the spot I imagine the sensor should be… Nothing. Ok, let's try the one to my left…

Same again.

Man to my left looks over, amused. "Is it me," I say, "I can see my reflection in the mirror; not a vampire." He laughs and leaves, thank goodness. I move left yet again, place my hand carefully. Success!

This morning at work I washed my hands after a, er… (sadly a warm seat this time.) I used the drier. Nice and warm. Lovely and warm in fact. "Oh yes…" I said, out loud, just as the dryer stopped.

I'd thought I had the gents to myself.

Wrong.

Snuffles wrong!

"Oh no," I said to myself and exited sharply, hoping I'd not been heard.

Cake. Pies. Pizza. Good wishes… Every time we have a birthday at work we colleagues get the benefit of the celebrant's largesse; it's great.

Yesterday's and today's celebrations put my recent kilogramme of biscuits to shame: yesterday 3 large pre-sliced cakes; today pies, pizza, chicken nuggets, other foodstuffs, and the remains of yesterday's cakes!

At the 10am daily brew time I chanced an arm – being Queen Elizabeth II's 90th birthday it seemed appropriate to alert the birthday boy thus: "Brew time ma'am!" I curtseyed too. Badly though, I'm out of practice.

It was received well.

I found a personal limit yesterday; 9 pieces of cake, sized small as they were, is indeed too much.

Perhaps I should have used the title 'plentiful', a good couple of days.

I hold a healthy amount of respect for our local Conservative councillors: approachable, local people; all with local interests at heart. All turn out to community-organised events. If not pillars of our community then friends of it, with a deep understanding of what makes it tick.

At a national level though, Conservatives seem completely, irredeemably, incompetent. If not morally-bankrupt, they're providing us with a useful template, a solid foundation for future generations to build misery on.

Speaking of foolish people, my life tends to run along a series of streaks. 'Cold Toilet Seat' and 'Blogging' are just 2 I could mention. Here's a good one though:

Days I haven't made a complete arse of myself: 0.

It reset today.

(Not telling.)

Yesterday afternoon the Labour Party's local local election candidate called round. Not specifically to my home of course…

Ruby dog barks at pretty-much everyone who calls now. I ask her to "Wait", close the living room door, and answer the front door – safe in the knowledge Ruby can observe from the relative comfort of the front window.

Yesterday though, yesterday unfolded a little differently.

I got up, asked Ruby to "Wait", closed the door, answered the front door and no sooner had I said "Hello. Sorry to say I'm not voting for you but I wish you every success, especially at the national level…" than Ruby shot past me, out of the door!

She wouldn't come back, ran next door, into the road, up the street and then waited. I followed, no shoes. As I closed in, all the while telling her to "come here", she sat, until something made her decision and she ran across the road and along the path we usually start the walk at.

3/4 of the way along she nosed about in the grass, all the while keeping what she must have thought a safe distance from me.

Eventually though as I waited and calmed down she came to me, I let her pause a moment to reestablish something-or-other, trust maybe, and picked her up.

I took 3 things away from this situation:

1. Shouting at a newly-escaped dog fails,
2. It's surprisingly hard to walk on the pavements (US: sidewalks) around here shod only in socks, even the thick ones I wore yesterday,
3. People who call unannounced at your door will walk away when presented with a situation it's easier to pass on to someone else.

I'm not inclined to test the next candidates out in a similar fashion. But it did cross my mind to.

I probably quit Medium in 2011; I've not been back there since. Being totally frank about the entire process it became hard work keeping engaged, maintaining the daily routine, sustaining the decision-making, the triaging process…

It wasn't a conscious decision to quit Medium; far from it in fact. The positive benefits of maintaining oversight demonstrably outweigh the later feelings of 'what-if I'd…'

I occasionally tell people an amusing-to-me anecdote associated with a wedding reception invite. It ably illustrates if not why I left Medium then what happened afterwards.

We got a wedding invite late in 2015; used it as an excuse to leave the girls at home and relax.

Well, the process started off calmly-enough but descended into farce – thankfully before we left home.

I had nothing to wear, not shirts anyway. Call me lazy, but I'd simply not bothered to buy new smart clothes for a few years. My wife promised to shop for me, she'd pick something suitable; my fashion sense isn't the best, see?

All she needed: my collar size. So I told her and the next day an SMS indicated a shirt awaited my arrival home from work…

A very nice shirt too.

I went upstairs to try it on. And there my comfortable existence fell apart…

I believed, Believed, BELIEVED I was still a size 14-1/2" collar.

No.

16" neck. 40" chest. Still short-of-leg though; that and the waist measurement remain mine.

I'm thankful no fly-on-the-wall documentary team was shadowing me that day; to see me first manfully then not-quite so manfully struggling with that obviously too-small-for-me shirt, first to fail to pull the sleeves up my arms, then to fail to fasten any buttons… And then to spend the longest 2 minutes of my life attempting (and finally succeeding right at the point my sense of reason was screaming at me to shout downstairs) to inch first one then the other sleeve down…

No longer Medium.

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Cheap, clickbait post? Yeah, why not? Fashionable, isn't it. I probably deserve your scorn simply for staying Large.

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If you don't understand this, don't worry.