Never too late

Setting a new record, a prize that I've been looking forward to receiving since March arrived today - that's a wait of seven months, give or take.

It's a bag of coffee, worth no more three pounds, so was it worth the chasing? The answer's in the question, ie: coffee.

I've weaned myself off coffee before; truth be told, I even spent a few weeks completely caffeine-free, but that's not something I'd recommend. At least, I'd not recommend doing it like I did, which is to say, cold turkey, as the experience is not unlike someone hammering your eyeballs with the heel of their boot.

But withdrawal symptoms aside, one thing that reducing my caffeine intake has taught me is that without coffee, I'm not actually human. I mean, obviously I'm unbearable, but that aside, I just like it too much. Between the children waking up and going to bed, my morning joe is invariably the high point of my day. I don't mean that to sound like I love coffee more than my children, but ... then, maybe I do ... you know, I've never really thought about it like that ... so let's just say it's less demanding than my children and leave it there.

Indeed, the whole point of this story is that today, I received gratis coffee. But the story doesn't stop there, as the promoter chucked in a second bag too - and a fancier spec of coffee at that. So forget better late than never; sometimes things can be better late than punctual too.

Match & Win

Kicking myself because I failed to click that this year’s Cadbury’s Match & Win promotion used the same mechanic as last year - in other words, the barcode and batch code on one bar of chocolate are good for two entries a day, for every day of the promotion. With one week left to get entries in, the chances of me scoring Norwich tickets are looking wafer-thin. Especially if I’m going to need Chelsea to lose 2-4 to Newcastle at home just to make it through to the prize draw.

The Consolation Prize

Last Saturday, Norwich City took - to use the vernacular - one hell of a beating. About ten minutes from the end, however, they scored a consolation goal. As second-born is currently keen as mustard to expand his football-related vocabulary, he asked what ‘consolation’ meant. A friend explained, you know when you don’t win but someone gives you a prize anyway… I had to stop him right there. That’s second place mate. That’s runner-up. That’s on the podium and in the prizes.

The idea that not winning outright is not winning is flat-out toxic. You see the same thing at the end of any football cup final when the runners-up receive their medals. Those chaps are not happy bunnies. Watch how many take off their medal rather than wear it for another second. They’d rather carry it all screwed up in their sweaty palm than make the zero effort required to wear it to the dressing room.

Sure, they’ve had a gruelling day, and sure, there’s still room to do better next time, but placing second isn’t losing! Losing isn't even getting knocked out in the first round; losing is not getting up for more.

After not winning the other week’s poetry competition on account of being a numpty, I didn’t quit. I dusted myself down and made nice with the promoter. I didn’t complain, and I certainly didn’t ask for a prize, and yet here we are: my ‘consolation prize’ of a couple of paperbacks arrived today - a treat better than I deserved, better than I was expecting, and way better than many things I have acumulated as a so-called ‘winner’.

A consolation goal makes no never mind to the result. A consolation prize that is a prize, is a prize, full stop. It’s all in the mindset.

The fool or the fool who follows the fool

What?! How dare you remove the "Following" tab! How am I supposed to stalk now?! Instagram,  you're dead to me.

Changes in Latitudes, Changes in Attitudes

Knee-deep in form-fillers today. The worst kind of comp - for me at least. I usually give these a wide berth, but you’re hard pushed to win a holiday off a basic like-tag on Instagram. Truth is, you’re hard pushed to win a holiday full-stop, but if you don’t try, you don’t prevail.

I nurture this fantasy that, with enough rest and recuperation, my brain might grow back. I don’t imagine I’ll ever be able to conjugate beautiful French or discuss with confidence - or failing that, bluster - the role of women in nineteenth-century opera, but the idea of being able to recall a three-item shopping list retains a certain allure.

There was a time I could manage a passable approximation of the above. That time, however, has passed. I can remember to get two children to school - usually on the right days, and sometimes even in their own clothes. I can remember to vacuum the carpet. And goodness knows I can remember to sob into the perpetually spewing laundry basket. But these are the squeaky wheels. Can I remember to touch up the wood-stain on the dining room floor or to dust absolutely anything? Not a chance.

So, that’s why I’m filling in forms today. Not because I’m hopeful of winning a holiday - no, I’m under no illusion about the likelihood of that - but rather because I’m imagining what it’d be like to have a week in Mauritius without children; without arguments; without people asking me questions then interrupting my answers with bullshit. I’m imagining what it’d be like to have informed opinions. I’m imagining what it’d be like to have a head inside which it wasn’t raining anvils. I’m imagining what it’d be like to have half a brain.

I imagine it’d be nice.

Raincheck

Some days you enter 300 comps; some days you spend just as long on one. But when it combines with your other favourite hobby, it's way more than twice the fun, and even if you don't win, you've got something to show for your efforts - something far more interesting than a load of random tags and emojis, which is basically what 80% of my communication on Instagram entails.

So, after 20 mins of those random tags and emojis on Instagram today,  I switched focus to a short story comp, and then spent  hours, literally hours, writing about astronauts, in the hope of winning an obscene amount of fancy chocolate.

Theoretically the job is now done, but I've learned from experience not to hand in my homework the moment I've completed the first draft. With this in mind, I'm afraid you'll have to wait a few days to see what I've been up to. Sorry!

Dividends

At last, the winning feeling has returned! After weeks of nothing, followed by one win that self-destructed, one that wasn’t mine, and one that I’ll never see because, well, you know what they say about the road to Hull, two winning notifications arrived on the same day - both riding in on the crest of my (ahem) unique talent for verse..

I’m no laureate, let’s be clear about that. But comps on poetry-based hashtag days are so under-subscribed, that I can’t resist them. Well, I can resist the ones run by anyone who takes the poetic arts remotely seriously. Partly that's because my doggerel would wound their very souls, and partly because they’re unlikely to be giving away anything as mundane as pet food or shoe polish.

Yes, the comps do take a bit longer to enter, but the odds are usually so much shorter than standard RT comps that one ignores them at one’s peril. Especially as so many of them are either judged by whichever member of the marketing team pulled the short straw that day, or not judged at all.

I’m as yet unsure what my Typhoo “goodies” will entail, but I’m guessing teabags will be the centrepiece. And who doesn’t need more tea? Even people who don’t drink it have to buy it - have you ever tried fobbing off a plumber with camomile? Good luck with that.

And so, with this in mind, I leave you with the least bad of my efforts:

“What starts with Tea and ends with Tea?”
“A wonderful day,” I replied.
“Six letters long, fourth letter P …
Teapot, of course,” he sighed.