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It's not often I get homesick (especially for a city like Hull) but I managed to get in one of those terribly nostalgic moods this morning while listening to my MP3 Jukebox on the way into work.

Years ago, when I still lived up North (I'm currently in the Berkshire area) we discovered an excellent British Country Music artist called Mike Greaves who had a band called MG Greaves and the Lonesome Too. Once a week, Mike and the band would play a local pub. They were rally very good combining a country music style with a cheeky British wit that Americans would never understand.

Mike put out a couple of albums and was pretty successful by all accounts - a number of his tracks were covered by the Beautiful South over the years - but I haven't heard anything of him or the band for ages until I picked up the CDs from home and chucked
them onto my portable device.

Anyways, sitting in backed-up traffic on the M4 on the way into Slough I fancied a listen to some of Mr Greaves' quality material and was immediately taken back to the banks of the River Humber and the odd whiff of fish from the docks (and they say nostalgia isn't what it used to be ...)

What it did hammer home was the fact that I am, sadly, getting older - not a pleasant thought at the best of times but disgustingly inevitable. Thinking back to when I was living on the verge of poverty working like a lunatic and wishing for a decent salary, it hit me that my current monthly wage cheque is way above what I used to earn but I'm still miserable for eight hours a day only now with the added disadvantage of having to sit in traffic with thousands of other mindless drones from Sector 7G for two hours a day.

After mulling the thought over for a bit around junction 8/9 (Maidenhead) it struck me there are only two ways out of this situation:

1. Win the lottery
2. Become King of England

Sadly option #1 is giving me more difficulties than one might expect - when the lottery launched they promised one if every four tickets was a "winner". After years of playing the bloody thing on three tickets a week I expect more than £50. Option #2 is equally unreachable as the Divine Right of Kings doesn't apparently extend to the sons of journalist's from Hull - bummer.

All things considered I may have to head for the newly invented option #3 and rob the Bank of England or the easiest option of the lot: chuck in my job and go on the dole where all I have to is whine constantly about how I need an updated Sky subscription and develop a heroin habit so some other bastard can pay for me - free council house and clothes for Wayne and Treesa anyone?

Not that I'm bitter you understand ;)