Magnums

Hello....hello....anyone there? Yes, sorry. It's been ages, hasn't it? I wish I had a really good reason for not being more frequent with the posting, but the sad truth is that I just seem to have lost the ability to write stuff down. As a result, this might be really dull. If it is, sorry. Again.

I'm mostly fully recovered from my surgery in January, although I went to the doctor a few weeks ago as I was anxious that I was still very tired, and very sore.  She said "When did you have your operation?" I told her, early January.  She said "Well, yes, but don't forget that there's a good six-month recovery period, it's all perfectly normal."

Six months?  But the hospital literature (and the surgeon) told me a six to eight week recovery period, I said.

The doctor explained patiently that the six WEEK recovery period is from the effects of the general anaesthetic and the actual mechanics of the surgery, the six MONTH recovery period is from the total procedure. She also made the point that just because it was all done via keyhole surgery, and thus left me with several teeny little external scars, there's been a lot done internally, and I probably have hundreds of stitches which all need to heal up, and muscles which take ages to repair and so on. Pleuk.  I had some blood tests and am "perfectly normal" which is nice to know.

So. I'm pretty much ok, although I'm still unable to climb hills without it making me very sore and exhausted the next day.  It's fortunate that we live in the middle of a large area with plenty of dog-walking opportunities which don't involve strenuous hill-climbing. I have discovered a new skill in falling in the mud in the water-meadows as a result.  There are several beautiful water meadows nearby, and I love to take the dog down there, as long as there are no cows in the fields.  She gets to race around like a maniac, and I stroll through the flowery countryside, watching herons and egrets and buzzards, and sometimes having the shit scared out of me by almost treading on a partridge or a duck lurking in the undergrowth.

There is (as the name implies) quite a boggy basis to the water-meadows.  If you walk along the semi-defined paths it's mostly alright.  Sometimes it's a bit wet underfoot, but if you're wearing wellies there's no problem.  However, if (for example) you see a friend walking along a different path and decide to strike out across the middle of the meadows in order to catch up with them for a chat, there is a real risk that you will put your foot down on what seems to be solid ground, sink in to the top of your Wellington boot, fail to pull your booted foot out of the mud, and end up standing on a tussock in your socks, hauling at the stuck boot with both hands while your dog licks your face joyfully and your friend is beside herself with laughter.

That aside, it really is a lovely walk.

Other news: I have volunteered to be a helper at Stonehenge.  The new visitors centre is open, and the Neolithic houses that Mr WithaY was involved in building are due to be opened to the public very soon, and they want people to come and assist with the visitors.  So I sent in an application, was invited to a "this is what it's all about" morning, then a full training day, and I am planning to start in the next couple of weeks.

I get an English Heritage fleece and everything.

The new visitor centre is spectacular. I'd only seen it from the main road and had decided I disliked it, but once you get close to it, and see how it fits in with the wider landscape you appreciate how cleverly it's been designed.

People have been complaining about the increased admission prices, which I had wondered about too, but apparently Stonehenge almost solely supports the rest of English Heritage financially.  Also, I think a lot of people don't realise that the monument covers more than just the ring of stones.  If all you look at is that, as part of a rushed coach tour of the entire South of England in a day, then yes, you're going to feel short-changed. But if you come for the day, walk around all of the site, check out the Neolithic houses, go through all the exhibitions and galleries, and really get a feel for the sheer scale of the place, I think you'd feel like you'd had your money's worth.

Avebury is part of the same site, which I hadn't been aware of.  They've built a model of the area where you can see all the various barrows, the cursus, stone monuments and so on, all linked together over miles and miles of the countryside, and it is astonishing.

So. Go and take a look. And if you see me there, say hello.

I've also picked up a part-time job in the garage/shop in the village.  It's rather nice, I see loads of people, hear all the gossip, and have learned a great deal about the buying habits of the sole business traveller.  Magnums, Red Bull and Haribo sweets.  That's what blokes travelling around for work seem to live on.  Farmers live on pasties, Lucozade and Mars bars.  Women buy wine.  Kids buy Caleppo ice lollies when they get home from school in the afternoon, but middle-aged blokes in company cars buy Magnums and Red Bull.

One of our neighbours came in and bought an ice lolly, and told me he planned to walk home via the river, where he would sit on the bridge while he ate it.  How charming.

Me:  That sounds idyllic!  I hope you enjoy it.

Him:  I will.  Mind you, the other day the wind caught my Magnum and blew it into the river.

Me: .......

Him:  I went in after it!

Apparently it was still in its wrapper, so he squelched home triumphant, soaked to the knees, enjoying his ice cream.

Hair raising

When I was on the train home the other night, amid the usual crowds of commuters, a gentleman came and sat in front of me.  Not something I usually pay much attention to, as the train is intended for the use of more than one person. 

In an ideal world I would have my own train, with a comfy sofa and an endless supply of entertaining and educational dvds to watch on the journey in every day.  I could learn other languages, or take a Masters degree, or become a silversmith.  I assume you can do all those things by watching someone else doing it?  Anyway, if not, on my perfect train, I would be able to. 

I'd also have a bed to snooze on if I didn't feel up to the rigours of education so early in the day.  Oh, and good books.  And some tropical fish in a huge aquarium for me to look at. 

There would be fresh flowers every day on my train, and a proper cooked breakfast served to me by a proper chef in a tall hat.  And a spa with a huge bath, and maybe a hot tub for the trip home, so I could arrive back all relaxed and fragrant.  And a hairdresser, a dry cleaner and an old-fashioned wise-cracking shoeshine chap to keep me smart without having to do it myself. 

In fact, sod it, let's just put my office in it and I'll work there too. 



Sadly, reality is far crueller.  The train is a packed, stuffy, uncomfortable mass transit system that gets me to London more or less on time, most of the time.  As an added bonus, if you live West of Gillingham, this week you'd be stuffed into a bus for a big chunk of your trip, due to a landslide blocking the train tracks.  Travel in the 21st Century.

Anyhoo, this bloke who sat in front of me.  Why did I notice him?

Guess.

Moles, hills

The mole's back.

We thought he had been run over, as we found a very squashed, slightly dessicated corpse in the road outside the house. It was either a mole or a young rat on his way to watch a major sporting event, wearing two of those giant foam hands.

Anyway.

The front garden has an ever-increasing tunnel network developing, which is ruining the pristine loveliness of the velvet lawns.*

Mr WithaY, in an alarming echo of the grand old Jasper Carrott Mole Story, has taken to stamping furiously on the mole tunnel tracks, particularly where it looks like a molehill might be developing. He thinks this will annoy the moles to such an extent that they will go and live somewhere else.

Never mind the moles, I'm beginning to think that way.

This evening, apparently, he has been outside watching the ground, and when he saw movement, he jabbed down through the disturbed earth with one of his longbow arrows, trying to maim or destroy the little invaders.

Once again, I wish I was making this stuff up.

The moles must be thinking "Fuck, civilisation's crumbled....they've reverted to traditional weapons up there."

I might sneak out to Mole Valley Farmers and buy a trap over the weekend.

If I don't get a trap, I might just stock up on sheep ointment. And a new scythe. And some farmer-wear clothing. And a huge industrial-sized box of washing powder. And a ham. I love that shop.

Other news: Got stuck in the middle of a military convoy on my way to work this morning. I pulled out of a junction in the middle of Salisbury Plain and found myself sandwiched between about 7 huge trucks in front, and another 5 or so behind.

It was slow, slow going. I think the top speed we managed was about 35 mph. Going up the hills, we were down to a grindingly frustrating 15mph, plus I got to enjoy the choking fumes as the truck in front struggled to make it all the way up to the top.

Despite the bendy, hilly, high-hedged nature of most of the roads, some idiots did suicidal overtaking manoeuvres, causing the oncoming traffic to swerve and flash their lights. I always half hope to find the fuckwits in question upside down in a ditch around the next bend.

On the bright side, the police were out in force again with their "for your safety**" speed traps. If there's any justice, a certain silver Mercedes is getting a nasty letter through the post soon.

I feel a bit less grouchy about work too. I've decided to get a lot more assertive with people, and to simply get on with my job. To this end, I emailed one of the external organisations I deal with and told them "As from next month, I will no longer represent my organisation at your meetings. I have passed your requirements to our central strategic team, they will be in touch to let you know who can help you."

I copied the email to the strategic people (who I had already spoken to) and my new boss. By doing that, I free myself up at least 1 day a month in London, which also saves my office £100 quid in train tickets.

Also, as I am out of the office on holiday most of next week, I emailed my team with a list of stuff I want them to do while I'm away. They're a good team, and more than capable of getting on with stuff, but I feel better about having left them with my expectations.

But. Next week. On holiday for most of it. Yay!



*I told you, in my head I have a garden like Hampton Court Palace.

**my arse

More car woes

Sorry to keep banging on about this, but it is looming large in my life at the moment.

Rang the garage just now to find out what time I can go and pick my car up, and they said "lunchtime tomorrow". So, all this "It will take 2 days, be ready late on Wednesday" stuff seems to have gone by the board.

Gah.

I rang a colleague who has very kindly agreed to come and pick me up tomorrow morning and take me into work. I will have to try and sort something out about getting to fucking Trowbridge tomorrow night. Mr WithaY is away, so he can't help. And his Landrover is still being given a new axle anyway.

My colleague lives miles in the wrong direction, so I can't really ask him to drop me up there.

Ah well, I shall have some lunch and watch some TV and maybe things will look better after that.