Viva Las Sulis

You'll be delighted to know that Mr WithaY and I are both still full of cold.  We seem to be taking part in an unofficial sneezing contest - a sneezathon, if you will - with both of us taking turns to scare the shit out of the other one with several explosive sneezes, followed by weak half-hearted nose-blowing and gasping for air.  Sometimes there will also be an apology, but it never sounds very genuine. 

I have added a painful sore throat to my repertoire, Mr WithaY is suffering with what looks like the latter stages of scurvy. 

We are pasty and grumpy.  More so than usual, I mean.

In an attempt to Snap Out Of It, as we are certain our respective parents would have advised, we went to Bath on Saturday.  We had been planning the trip for a while.  Well, it's a big deal, going to the Big City.  Originally we had intended to go by train, but on the day we decided to drive; well, as we were heading off nice and early, parking would not be a problem.

Or so we thought.

There's a handy car park in Manvers Street, next to the police station, where, local urban myth has it, some naughty scamp planted cannabis in the dead of night in the big concrete flowerpots out the front of the cop shop, only to have it grow and flourish there for months.  I have no idea if it's true, but I do like the story. 

Anyhoo.  We got to the car park by 10.30.  The top level was full, so we headed down the ramp to the spacious and charming* lower level.   Gah!  Half of the lower level was fenced off, with no apparent reason.  There was a space, but it was a bit tight to cram Mr WithaY's huuuuuuge LandRover into it.  He managed, avoiding all the parked cars around him AND the concrete pillar. 

The agenda for the day was as follows:

1)  Scour all the charity shops in Bath for appropriate 1940s-style menswear that would fit Mr WithaY.  Don't ask. 

2)  Have lunch out somewhere nice, possibly after meeting our mate Ed, to whom Mr WithaY needed to pay some money**. 

3)  More charity shop scouring.  There are a lot of charity shops in Bath.

4)  Visit Long Tall Sally (the clothes shop, not the person) and see if there was anything nice in their sale.

5)  Take a peek in the guitar shop just out of interest, not to buy anything, no honestly, I'll only be in there a minute.

6)  Go to Habitat, to try and Get With The Trends. 

7)  Finally wend our weary way back to the car, laden with the fruits of our shopping expedition, exhausted and happy, and hopefully thoroughly snapped out of our colds.

The reality was somewhat different. 

Once the car was safely parked and the EXTORTIONATE parking ticket bought, we headed into town.  The very first charity shop, almost the very first shop, that we found, delivered everything we needed and more.  Mr WithaY acquired two pairs of sturdy woollen trousers, suitably voluminous and pleated, and a dark green corduroy jacket which he is seriously considering wearing to work "because it's really nice."   All for under £25. 

They go with his new patterned tank top that he had already bought (online without my knowledge, honestly that man's a constant fount of startlement) a treat. 

I found a copy of Bill Bryson's "A Short History of Nearly Everything" which I have been meaning to buy for ages, and only had to pay £2.50 for it.  Result. 

So, we were two hours from meeting our mate, and had already completed the bulk of the day's mission.  What to do...what to do?

Aha!  There's a Patisserie Valerie in Bath.  Where they sell Eggs Benedict.  Nom nom nom.  We had a late breakfast, and admired our bargains. 

Suitably sustained, we headed back out to see what adventures Bath held.

In the covered market, I found this.  Elvis.  But in Lion form! 

I honestly thought my heart would stop - it is so perfect.  Look at the sneer on him!

And the attention to detail...well...

I had to be led away by Mr WithaY.

Remember the Bath Pigs, a while ago?  I was really hoping this would be the first of many leonine interpretations of rock legends, but he seemed to be a one-off. 

Also, this man wins the There Must Be Easier Ways To Make A Living Award:

It was raining!   So...on a tightrope, playing the fiddle, in the rain.  For (I looked*** in his hat) about 8 quid. 

Lunch.  Ah yes, lunch.  We went to the Hall and Woodhouse.  It's a strange place, almost a pub, almost a giant waiting room, almost a bistro, not quite anything entirely.  It was very busy, but we found somewhere to sit, and I ordered an egg mayonnaise sandwich. 

It arrived, presented disarmingly in what looks like a swabs dish from a Stalinist military hospital.

Mmmmm.  Appetising.

To be fair, it wasn't a bad sandwich, despite having lettuce in it when the menu had only mentioned cress, and arriving with a portion of chips on the side which, again, the menu failed to mention. 

I should write restaurant reviews.

Lunch completed, we scooted back out into the rain to complete the remaining missions on our list.  Long Tall Sally had moved, so we walked up and down a while till we found the new shop, where I bought a couple of tops in the sale.  It's great being slightly less obese.  You have so much more choice in clothes shops.

Then, as we were in the area, we called into the guitar shop.

What a sack of arse that was.

It is staffed - as most guitar shops in my experience seem to be - by aloof young men with complicated hair and achingly hip rock-god clothing styles.  In this place, though, there is no elder guitar statesman to manage them, and rein in their sneering when a middle-aged woman wanders in off the street.  I shan't be buying anything from them, even if I do decide to sell my Rickenbacker and invest in something else in the future.

Bastards.

I was tempted to steal a quote from Ab Fab's Patsy - "You can drop the attitude, you only work in a shop you know."








*Dank, piss-smelling dungeon.  With pay machines. 

**The money payment is related to the clothes purchasing at point (1) above.  It's all very bizarre complicated, but if things pan out, I promise to provide a full report later in the year. 

***Yes, yes, I gave him some money.  Well, it's traditional.

Whut?

"sti makes bumble bee drone independent of engine"


Best.

Blog search criteria.

Ever.

Tired and emotional

I'm writing this from my sickbed, for a nice change. Mr WithaY has emigrated into the spare room so he can have his very own sickbed. In fact, in a bizarre one-upmanship stunt, he was actually sick a little while ago, while I am merely laid low with a blinding headache, intermittent chills and an increasing amount of snot. 

It's lovely at our house. I can feel your envy from here.  Or is that just another temperature spike? 

I was feeling a bit weird earlier in the week, but put it down to tiredness and intellectual burnout, as I had been dealing with huge terrifying spreadsheets for days.

As an aside, how did I end up doing scary finance, exactly? I have, more than once, mentioned my maths blind spot on this blog. If the whole country crashes deeper into the depths of depression, possibly exploding in a huge fireball of even more debt, I have a nagging fear it might be all my fault. Those pesky spreadsheets. 

Anyway.  Whining about ailments aside, it's been an action-packed  week so far.

Monday went like this.  I have abbreviated it for you, so as to spare you the unrelenting tedium that is my average working day.

Oh fuck no is that the time drive drive drive train train train train bus work work work spreadsheets work complicated formulae work work meetings work lunch from M&S work work TUBE gah! train lovely Middle Sis's house for dinner. 

They're doing something complicated to the escalators at Victoria station. Apparently we should "avoid the station between 4pm and 8pm" i.e. throughout the entire evening commute. Yeah right.  There's a one way system in place for the weary travellers.  You have to join the end of a massive snake of people, through the booking hall, across past the barriers, up the stairs, through the main overground part of the station, down some other stairs, back past the barriers but on the other side, then finally through the ticket barriers and down to the underground platforms. It took about 15 minutes, all told. 

I'm jolly glad I don't have to endure that every day.

I was going to brag about the pie I made for dinner, but since Mr WithaY was sick I've rather lost heart.

I hope we both feel better tomorrow. 

Running Free

An interesting few days, recently.  To summarise:

1)  Work.  I have submitted an application for early release from my job as part of the HUGE cuts to the public sector that the Government is implementing.  If my application is accepted, I will, on May 31st this year, leave Her Majesty's employ after twenty two and a half years, and be released back into the wild.   I am tremendously excited at the prospect. 

I joined the Department of Secrecy a few months after I graduated, having taken the Civil Service entrance exam the week after my finals, and then worked like a SLAVE for them for twenty years. Twenty.  Jesus. 

Two years ago, as regular longstanding readers will already know, I transferred to the Department of Less Secrecy and More Cement up in London, to see what working in a Whitehall job was like. 

I can report that it's busy, demanding, interesting and sometimes a bit scary.  Plus you see Ministers in the lifts, and there are some fab shops really close to the office.   

However, the last two years have, coincidentally, been crammed with some very bad stuff, including the (now-resolved) SSFH.  We also had Mr WithaY's horrible finger-lopping accident, several loved ones being very ill indeed, and me having the Black Lung on and off for what felt like the entire time. 

Dealing with all of that, as well as a 3 hour each-way commute to the office is proving to be just too much, and as a result my sick record for the last 2 years is appalling.  I honestly think the early mornings and hellish travelling will kill me, so it's time for a change.  This is the perfect opportunity.

Fingers crossed that I get gently coaxed out of the cage in May, and am set free to scamper into the woods, wagging my tail and sniffing at the warm Spring air.

I have no idea what I will do with my life when I stop being a corporate drone, by the way. 

Suggestions are welcome.

2)  Family.  Mother in law WithaY was here for a visit last weekend.  She had to go to a funeral, sadly, so was over from her chic pad in the South of France for a few days.  It was nice to see her, as we don't get to visit as often as we'd like.  She was bored after a few hours, and took to wandering into the kitchen while I was making dinner, demanding some ironing to do.  I ordered her back to the sofa with a cup of tea, but it was a close-run thing.  At one point I thought I might have to use a broom to shoo her away. 

Yesterday I went down to Sussex to visit my lovely Mum, and also saw Youngest Sis and the two younger nephews.  We all went out for a Chinese lunch, to the same place we went to for the big birthday celebration almost a year ago.  There was a flyer on the table advertising a forthcoming Chinese New Year evening there, which included a Lion Dance among the cabaret attractions.  It's not a very big restaurant.  I'd love to see how they manage it in the space available. 

3)  Birthday celebrations.  Yes, today is my birthday.  Again. 

Following the slight gift-giving hiccup on Christmas Day, Mr WithaY has gone to a lot of trouble to make today very special for me.  He told me yesterday evening that he had invited some of our friends over for "birthday tea" this afternoon.  I asked what I needed to bake.  I was told "You don't have to do anything.  It's all organised."  And it was.  He had bought the ingredients to make:

Smoked salmon and cream cheese sandwiches
Marmite and watercress sandwiches
Scones with strawberry jam and clotted cream
Hot buttered crumpets

But the piece de resistance was the cake.  A huge, chocolate, fuck-off, surprise birthday cake.

Look...

I was so impressed by this that I had to deploy my shiny cake stand for the scones.  Magnificent, no?

I also had a bunch of beautiful flowers that a friend* gave me last weekend, which had opened up for today.  Perfect timing.

And, hey, is that a CAKE there in the foreground?

The little house behind the flowers was a birthday gift from Mother in law WithaY.  It's a bumble bee house, and when the weather gets warmer I will find a sunny sheltered spot in the garden, put it out there, and hopefully attract bumble bees to nest in it.  She was puzzled when she found out that I was given an annual membership to the Bumble Bee Conservation Trust last year as a gift, but was keen to join in I think, hence the house. 

And tomorrow night I am visiting Middle Sister, who has hinted there may be baklava.  Wonder how things will go at the weigh-in this week.  Heh. 

Other news:  I met a nice elderly lady on the bus last week who was wearing a huge, gorgeous fur coat and hat.

Me:  That coat looks lovely and warm.

Nice elderly lady:  Yes.  I've been to a funeral down in Brighton all afternoon, and it was freezing cold, so it was the perfect thing to wear. 

Me:  I can imagine.  And it's such a lovely colour.  Do people ever comment on it?

Nice elderly lady:  Yes, I have had people tell me I shouldn't wear fur.  I tell them it's not real. 

Me:  Ha!  Do they believe you?

Nice elderly lady:  Well, it isn't real.  It's not WILD mink. 

She was a card. 

*Hello Sarah!



Speed 2

The encountering odd people on public transport theme continues.  Allow me to share: 

Yesterday evening, as I was struggling into a seat on the bus to Waterloo, lugging my rucksack awkwardly into the luggage space and perching on the suspiciously clammy seat, I became aware of an Irritating Loud Woman. 

Irritating Loud Woman was on her phone, using a headset so that she had both hands free for Important Gesticulation And Shit.  Irritating Loud Woman was bellowing to her caller about all the travelling she had been doing.

ILW:  God I KNOW!  Yes...yes...I was there too recently.  Yes...booked a room on your recommendation actually.  Yes, loved it.  Amaaaaazing place! 

A short pause followed where she rolled her eyes and played with her handbag strap as the person on the other end of the phone had the temerity to play a speaking part in the conversation.  Her eyes narrowed and she threw in the trump hand grenade of bragging. 

ILW:  So...yeah...yeah...I was in China.  Yes.  (slightly louder) China.  Then Spain. Then Ireland.  *loud guffaw*  I know!  I've been home like 10 days in the last 2 months!  And I'm off to the Bahamas at the end of the month!  *guffaw*

It did occur to me to wonder why she was on the bus, albeit on the back seat, and not in a taxi, judging by the details of her jetset lifestyle.  As this uncharitable thought played through my jaded brain, a tall black girl with amazing dreadlocks marched down the aisle, dragging a selection of bags and a shopping trolley behind her.   

Tall black girl with amazing dreadlocks:  (In unexpected Yorkshire accent)  Scuse me!  Scuse me!  You.  Yeah you!  Can you stop being so loud on the bus please! 

ILW:  ......?

TBGWAD:  I can hear you right down the end!  Can you keep noise down please?

ILW:  .....?

I had to suppress a snort of delighted glee as the Irritating Loud Woman blushed deeply, then continued her conversation in a much quieter voice.  She moderated it down to normal speaking tones, I'd guess, rather than the show-off bellow she had previously deployed. 

The bus started pulling away from the stop we were at, throwing the girl with the dreads and bags into a panic.

TBGWAD:  (To the bus driver)  Scuse me!  Hey!  HEY!  Scuse me!  I need to gerroff here!  Stop bus!

The driver obliged, opening the doors.  There was a long and comical struggle as several people at the front of the bus jostled to help her with all her bags.  I think had we had more time, she would have been carried off in triumph on their shoulders, frankly.

I missed my train as a result but it was worth it.

I covertly watched the ILW for the remainder of the journey.  She was mortified.  I was glad.

Other news:  My car is fucked.  Gah. 

I was driving home from the railway station last night.  It was very dark.  It was very cold. So cold, in fact, that I had had to de-ice my car (inside and out) before I could leave the station car park.  It was getting late. 

I set off on the short but time-consuming trip through winding lanes and troll bridges, through the woods, through the little teeny villages, past the burned-down pub, up hill, down dale, over the river and back to Hobbiton. 

My thoughts were filled with the delicious roast chicken dinner* that I knew was waiting for me. 

I had just emerged from the bosky glades and hit the main road (Two lanes!  Some streetlights at the major junctions!) when I realised that my speedometer was stuck on 0.  Zero.  Nil. 

I knew that was wrong.  Well, I was moving, for a start. 

I was dopily looking at the speedo, then back at the icy road ahead, then back at the speedo, not sure if I was seeing things or not, and then the orange "Check Engine" warning light came on too. 

Ohhhh fuck noooooooo.

It may have been my imagination, but I would swear that I felt the car shudder, like a wounded beast about to roll over and die. 

There was a moment where I considered pulling over and phoning Mr WithaY to come and rescue me, but I bit my lip and ploughed on.  The car juddered again.  I stopped.  I switched off the engine, then restarted the car.  The "Check Engine" light went out.  I pulled away.  The speedo was still dead. There were several heavy seconds of anticipation, then the orange light came back on.

If you were driving towards Shaftesbury late yesterday evening, you may have heard what you thought was a siren, wailing eerily.  That was me.  Well, it was if the siren sounded like someone wailing "fucking hell nooooooooooo" for 5 miles non-stop. 

So, today I rang the chaps at the garage.  They told me take my car down there for them to look at.  There followed a couple of hours of traipsing back and forth to the garage, talking to the chaps, waiting for Chap 2 to return from a delivery to confer about technical stuff with Chap 1, Chap 1 making phone calls to Toyota, Chap 2 telling me horror stories about how badly things can go wrong with cars, and finally I was given a lift back home and told to Wait.

Later that same day, a call from the garage. 

Good news:  They know what's wrong.  I'd tell you, but my brain did that Star Trek thing of just hearing "tech...tech...tech....computer....tech....expensive....tech.....new part will be here on Friday....tech...£188 plus VAT.....tech."  I don't do it on purpose. 

It's like maths lessons used to be at school.  I started out every time with good intentions, but after 3 minutes my brain simply refused to acknowledge what was being said, and sent me pictures of Alex Lifeson and Bruce Dickinson, or composed endless bad poems I was going to write down as soon as I could find a nice enough poetry notebook. 

I swear, if I replayed every maths lesson I attended between 1977 and 1983, apart from the two weeks we did spatial geometry, which I understood and enjoyed**, it would just sound like white noise.

Bad news:  It wil cost £188 (plus VAT) for the part they need.  Plus labour.

Arse.

So.  I'm working at home tomorrow, as my car is not really safe to drive. 

And I might be selling my Rickenbacker.





*Mr WithaY is just great. 

**The maths teacher was flummoxed, and would ask me with irritation "If you can understand this, why can't you understand quadratic equations?"  I'm certain she thought I was doing it deliberately.  It never occurred to her that my failure to understand might in some way be linked to her unimpressive teaching skills.  Bah.

In the bag

Whilst travelling to the office the other morning, I was interested to see this going on:

They're updating the big "4" outside the Channel 4 TV studios.  I shall take another picture when it's finished.  I bet you can't wait.

As I was getting off the train last night, my attention was caught by a lady with many bags and bundles and cases.  She was dressed rather eccentrically, plenty of draped shawls and artistic scarves and things, her long grey hair in plaits like something out of Little House on the Prairie.

She was fussing and chattering as one of the other commuters helped her with her bags, handing them to her and then stepping down onto the platform himself.  He was still carrying a strange green wicker basket - clearly not his own - as they walked towards the car park.  She was chuntering away at him, he was trying to hand her the basket and walk off to get to his car, too polite to just shove it into her be-mittened hands and stride into the darkness while she was still talking to him.

I was stuck walking behind them, as she was quite slow, and her suitcase on wheels was giving her trouble, taking up the entire width of the path as it swung back and forth behind her.  To be honest, she struck me as someone whose things would always give her trouble.

Anyhoo.  The polite commuter kept trying to hand her the green basket, and she resolutely ignored it, chattering away at him as she wrapped her shawls and scarves around herself in the rain, struggling to keep her suitcase in a semi-straight line.
 
"Gosh," I thought.  "She's making that kind man carry her basket all the way back to her car."

As we all got into the car park, several waiting cars with engines running and headlights helpfully blinding everyone, another man ran up to the bag lady and her unwilling escort.

"Here!" he called, breatheless and flustered.  "Here!  Wait!"

Everyone turned round, and he said:  "That's my basket!  Give it back!"

The kind commuter was horrified.  "I thought it was hers!" he said, gesticulating at the bag lady with his briefcase, as the flustered man grabbed the green basket from his other hand.

"No!  It's mine! I saw you pick it up from the luggage rack and was trying to stop you!"

Heh.

The bag lady then turned her attention to the breathless man, and the polite commuter made good his escape, running across the car park to his car and making a tyre-screeching exit.

By the time I had walked to my car, they were out of earshot but it looked like a huge row was brewing as she waved her arms at him, and he flailed about with his green basket.  A smartly-dressed man in a waiting car was beeping his horn and shouting out of his car window, trying to claim the bag lady, but she was enjoying herself far too much.

Heroics 101

Ah, London.  Still too noisy, too crowded, too filthy.  But I was glad to be back at work last week.  We have a new Big Boss now as a result of the huge changes taking place across our Department, so it will be interesting to see how things change under his leadership. 

It was a short week, what with last Monday being a Bank Holiday, but even so by Friday lunchtime I was KNACKERED.  And that was after two days working at home, and only two where I had to travel to the office.  The trains were pleasantly under-crowded, I guess a lot of people were still on holiday.  Monday will be different. 

There has been a new and delightful addition to the usual carriage-full of exhausted and grumpy commuters, though.  I shall call him Adenoid Man.  He sleeps the entire way to London, mouth agape, snorting and gruntling to himself in his own little private dreamworld for two hours.  If I ever have to sit next to him, there WILL be a recording made, I promise.  And photographs. Well, if you fall asleep on public transport, what do you expect?  Honestly. 

I'm sitting in my study this afternoon with the window open, blue sky, sunshine and birds singing.  It's like a little foretaste of spring in between the cold and rain of January.  Lovely.  There's no sign of any of the Spring bulbs coming up in the garden yet, I expect the snow and ice of December impeded them.  Another few weeks though, hopefully, and there will be crocuses.  Crocii?  Croca?

Anyhoo, it won't be long before we get some flowers making an appearance.

In other news:  I made a cake yesterday.  First cake I've made in about ten months, I think.  I bought myself a cook book and decided to try out one of the recipes.  I made the ginger and marmalade loaf, and it was marvellous.   Mr WithaY had been out shooting all day (one cartridge fired, nothing hit, not a good day) so when he got home he was cold and a bit grumpy; a nice cup of tea and a bit of cake was just the ticket. 

God, I'm so British.

The success of that recipe has encouraged me to have a go at some of the others, so I will probably make another cake next weekend. 

In not entirely unrelated news, I think I've put on about 5 pounds since my last trip to the slimming group, waaaaay back at the end of November.  In my defence, I had a month of Black Lung, and then Christmas, so I will go along in a positive frame of mind next week ready to start again.  I'm still 2 stone lighter and 2 dress sizes smaller than I was this time last year.  Onwards and upwards.

Also, Mr WithaY presented me with my Christmas present this week.  It is (and I am sorry if this repulses you) the official companion book to the new World of Warcraft Cataclysm expansion pack.  Yes, I know, I know.  Shut up.  I was thrilled. 

He still maintains that we agreed not to do Christmas gifts.  I have no recollection of any such agreement.  I have taken the precaution of noting my birthday on the calendar later this month, and have casually mentioned several time that we ARE doing birthday presents.  Just to be on the safe side, you understand.

I've been reading some more pulp adventure books on my iPhone on the train this week.  Edgar Rice Burroughs' science fiction, to be exact.  My word but it's formulaic.  I can't decide if it's formulaic because it's derivative, or because it is what everyone else copied.

Either way, I think I boiled the basics down as follows:

1)  Hero is a strapping Earthman who has found himself on an alien planet, Mars or Venus probably. Meets and falls for gorgeous high-ranking local bird.  Probably a princess. 

2)  Hero and bird embroiled in complicated and unconvincing mishap which forces them to flee the city in a flying machine.  No other people on the alien planet should have flying machines, or if they do, theirs are outclassed by the Earthman's.  Oh, plus the Earthman has a weapon that nobody else has, which allows him to mow them down in their dozens without risk of injury to himself or his bird.  Insert partonising paragraph about how bird is eventually trained to use either the weapon or to fly the aircraft semi-competently here. 

3)  Tedious and idiotic adventures follow, usually as a result of the Earthman's own stupidity.  This should entail trying to travel back to safety, seeing a city down below, and deciding to go and take a closer look despite the protestations of his bird and/or any other assorted companions he has acquired.  Flying machine is then somehow lured down or incapacitated by missile fire due to crap piloting or flat disregard of common sense. 

4)  Earthman and companions all imprisoned and thrown into Pits.  Insert horrible and detailed descriptions of natives and their vile cannibalistic/torturing/human sacrificing behaviour, sometimes with gratuitous sexual typecasting here.  There may well be an unflattering description of males of another species who are not "manly" enough. 

5)  Unlikely series of coincidences and serendipity allows Earthman and companions to escape.  During long-winded escape, hero and his companions must do at least 3 of the following:

• find long-lost city now ruled by hideous monsters
• uncover huge assassination plot
• fight alien tigers
• encounter wise but dying creature
• encounter vile but redeemable creature
• spurn the love of beautiful but unprincipled woman
• reunite ruler of city with heir, presumed dead all these years
• discover hidden treasure
• explore parts of the world nobody else has ever discovered
• find missing civilisation

Repeat at least five times per book. 

I don't think I'll read any more.

Not a patch on Conan. 

Busted

I thought I'd do another one of those "what are people using to find me in search engines" things.

Rather wishing I hadn't now, to be honest.

1)  for everything that is worth our lifes are fragile to dark, and when we got  When we got what?   What?  I must know.  I Googled it myself and it seems to be a poor interpretation of a song lyric by Nine Inch Nails, a band I am only vaguely aquainted with.  Musically, I mean.  I've never met any of them to my knowledge.  I haven't dared to trawl through the 89 pages of search results to see where my blog appears.  Somewhere near the bottom, I expect. 

2)  big snow, little snow  This is a consistent appearer in the list, some weeks it is the ONLY phrase, in a variety of configurations.  It seems to be luring readers to their doom here though, so I am pleased.  I still haven't found any kind of verification that it is an "old Indian saying" other than Mr WithaY nodding at me sagely and telling me It's All True, Honest.

As an aside, he is a LIAR. 

Example:

We were in Salisbury the other weekend.  There was a marquee thing beside the river and I commented on it.

Me: Ooh, look, a big tent!

Mr WithaY:  The circus is in town!

Me:  Really??  Shall we go?

Mr WithaY:  No...it isn't.

He then had to walk bent double for laughing, occasionally jabbing me in the ribs and calling me gullible.  Bastard.

The marquee contained a portable ice rink, if you were wondering. 

3)  sensitive new age cowpersons  Hurrah!  An excellent band, now defunct I believe, but worth a listen if you like (a) rock music (b) banjos  (c) Australians.  We saw them at a festival several years ago and they were hilarious, as well as excellent musicians.  Bastards. 

4)  so kiss me and cry for me  This is another one that comes up pretty often. I think it picks up my blog as I have the tiresome affectation of using song titles as blog titles when I can think of something suitable.  Sorry about that, lyric seekers.    Must be very annoying if you're looking for the words to a song and all you get is photographs of cakes and ranting about fuckwits.

5)  ankle flare  This is in itself a weird thing to seach for.  I like to imagine a bunch of textile design students trying to find helpful and relevant information about trouser making, and instead they get gruesome photos of my sprained fractured ankle.  Mwahahahahaaaaa.

Other news: Back to work this week, along with many other sad, sad people.  It struck me that people on the bus looked really sad.  Not just grumpy, or stressed, but actually sad.  Also shabby.  I hope it was just a symptom of post-Christmas despair, rather than the start of a long spell of ragged-trousered philanthropist-style poverty for all of us. 

The exception to this were the two young men who got thrown off the bus as I was getting onto it.  The bus came to a halt a few yards from the bus stop and the doors opened.  I hopped aboard, then stopped in my tracks as the driver was shouting "Get off my bus!  Off!"

It took me a second to realise he wasn't talking to me, and I sat down to watch the show. 

They were sitting on the back seat, where all the bad boys sit, and there was a sort of Mexican standoff as they tried to stay in their seats and look cool and dangerous.  Unfortunately for them, they looked like twats.    It took them a few moments to work out that the bus driver could simply sit there all evening until they got off the bus, or until the police showed up. 

So they stood up, shouting abuse at the driver and sauntering slowly down the aisle while all the other passengers glared at them, one large black lady making that excellent disparaging "tsssss" noise as they walked past her, which was the perfect response. 

And so we continued to Waterloo, leaving the ejectees out in the rain.  Twats.

I am still not loving getting up before 6am to go to work, but I had a constructive first day back.  Waiting to see what the application for voluntary redundancy process will look like now.  Fingers crossed., eh. 

Review of the Year

January:

The addition of fish to our Christmas-present-to-ourselves aquarium.  Glad to be able to report that we have only lost a very few over the intervening 12 months, and the ones who are still there look happy.  Well, as happy as fish ever do.  They've grown, and their colours are bright.  And I think one of them was smiling at me.

Snow.  Lots of snow.  Inability to get to work, which started off as fun and exciting, and rapidly became irritating and constraining.  No snow animals, though.  Fail.

Chest infection.  Yes, another bout of the Black Lung. 

Ongoing SSFH fuckwittery from the police, proving that basic administration CAN be impossibly hard if you really work at it. 

Sausage making. Oh yes.  Oh yes indeed.  Watch and be impressed, dear readers.  The hands belong to our friend the chef, the splendid camera work was down to me.  I didn't realise my camera recorded sound. Until I filmed that. 

February:

More fuckwittery from the police.  I suspect that I could say that every month, to be honest.

My blog was stalked by a mad optician for a bit, they added semi-literate comments to the same post over and over. Fool. 

Big, long, fantastic holiday to the US of A was booked, which cheered us both up after the horrible year we had just had.

Joined Slimming World, after deciding that I really couldn't pretend that I was fine as I was any more.  That was a surprisingly hard thing to do, it felt like an admission of defeat and failure somehow.  And now, 10 months on, two and a half stone lighter so far, I realise what a fucking idiot I was for not doing it years ago. 

March:

I had my hair cut at a posh hairdresser in Salisbury.  And it was great.  I will continue with that for the forseeable future I think.   Well, at least for as long as I have a job and can afford it. 

There was a lot of whining about trains.  Again, I expect that is true for every month. 

Minor domestic appliance chaos, and a huge crack in Mr WithaY's Landrover windscreen made it an expensive month. 

April: 

April was ALL ABOUT the visas.  Following the SSFH, we discovered that we now need visas to travel to the USA, so we had weeks of incredibly stressful and depressing paperwork and expense.  It all came right in the end, but I can honestly say that if we hadn't already booked the flights and hotel we would not have bothered. 

Mr WithaY went off to Wales for a fortnight to help run the outdoor activity stuff with work.  I don't remember any major domestic appliances breaking while he was away, for a change. 

There was also a degree of ranting about fuckwits on trains.

May:

May saw the continuation of the Black Lung, which had stuck around on and off for about 5 months.  Nice.

The weather improved and we did work on the garden. 

Poor brother in law was taken ill, which was very frightening, but thankfully he is making good progress now. 

Father in law was also taken very ill, rushed into hospital several times, all very upsetting.  Oh, and the nursing home staff dropped him on his head, which didn't help matters.  He is still with us, though, battling on and watching murder mysteries with glee. 

Holiday preparation continued, having the visas meant that we actually started looking forward to it.

June:

We went to AMERICA.  Hurrah!  I can't believe it was 6 months ago. 

We also had the house insulated - been much warmer this winter, so that was worth doing - and did lots to the garden. 

Oh, and I got chatted up by the man who works at the rubbish tip.  Bonus.

July:

AMERICA AMERICA AMERICA.  We were over there for a month, it was marvellous.  Best holiday ever.

I fell over in Nantucket like an idiot and fractured my ankle, not realising I had done so for about 3 weeks.  Gah.  Well, a bad sprain looks like a fracture, and vice versa, apparently.

The weather had been boiling hot the whole time we were away, we returned home and the rain started.  Ah well.

August:

I started my new job, still in London, still in the same department, but in a different team and with a different role.  Still enjoying that.  Good chance that I will be made redundant though, next year.  And to be honest, that would mean that I wouldn't have to spend 6 hours a day travelling, and would probably pay off most of the mortgage, so hey, not all bad.

Had the plumber in to do some minor work on the bathroom.  Ended up with huge holes smashed in the walls and a craving for whiskey.  Looks ok now.

September:

September is all about the Frome Cheese Show.  I am already looking forward to the next one.

We persuaded father in law WithaY to sell his house, and spent many weekends travelling to Dorset to clear his stuff out and take photos for the estate agents.  It's still on the market.  Anyone with £300K to spare, drop me a line.

October:

Had a mini holiday in St Ives with some mates, the weather was lovely, the sea was blue, we saw a seal, Mr WithaY fell over backwards into a stream. Oh, and there were cream teas.  Perfect.

Went to see our MP to try to resolve the ever-present SSFH aftermath. 

I lost my blogging mojo for a bit, but not to worry, it came back.  Like Lassie. 

November:

Rained.

Return of the Black Lung.   4 weeks off work, antibiotics, chest x-rays blah blah fucking blah.  Again.

Also, visit from two senior police officers to discuss the rather excellent letter which our MP wrote to the Chief Constable.  Had almost 2 hours with them, explained exactly how their actions had affected us, and how incredibly fortunate we are to have a close group of friends and neighbours who looked after us when the SSFH broke over our heads, and basically made sure we didn't do anything stupid at a time when we felt as though we might. 

Police apologised profusely and heartily. Police also said they would pay us a small token amount - NOT compensation, that would imply fault - but as a recognition of what we had suffered as a result of their "poor decision."  We agreed that we would let the matter rest.  We are waiting for a cheque. 

Feel as though a line has been drawn under that now, which is a huge relief.

December:

Snow snow snow.  Frost and fog as well.  Very seasonal.

Catastrophe in the kitchen with a shelf collapse, and about £500 of china and glass smashed all over the floor.  Waiting for a letter from the insurance company.  Gah.

New curtains though.


SSFH:

So, yeah.  We were arrested last summer.  The police turned up at our house at 0630 with a warrant and a battering ram (thankfully not used) and arrested us both on very serious, very nasty allegations.  We were held in the cells for 10 hours, photographed, fingerprinted, questioned under caution and finally released on bail.  Our home was searched, a lot of our property was confiscated for examination, and we both felt as though our world had come to an end. 

A week later we were told that the police would be taking no further action, and all our property was returned.  I was off work for over a month with post traumatic stress, we were both very badly affected, and without the love and support of our friends and neighbours, I really don't know that we would both still be here. 

We've spent a lot of time over the last 18 months trying to get an explanation as to how this could have happened, and why, and who was responsible for the original malicious and unfounded allegations.  We'll never know, as it turns out the police didn't know either.  But they decided to act anyway.  As they said to us last month: "It was not our finest hour."  No, it really fucking wasn't.

As a result of that, we now have to get a visa to travel to the USA.  We have managed to get our DNA, photographs and fingerprints deleted from the central police database, and we have had an apology from the Chief Constable. 

It should never have happened. 

And the saddest thing, to me at least, is that we no longer trust the police. 

But, at least we now have closure, to use a dreadful pseudo-psycholgical term.  And as a result, next year will be a good one.

Thank you to all our friends, neighbours and family who got us through what was undoubtedly the worst few months of our lives.  Onwards and upwards.

Hurrah.

Happy New Year, everyone.  Thank you for reading, commenting and hopefully enjoying spending virtual time with me.  Looking forward to the next chapter.

Snack time

Hmmm...a bit peckish.  How about a nice sandwich?  Crusty bread, some ham, a bit of tomato, perhaps.  Just the ticket.

Hey, here's a place that sells sandwiches.  Let's have a look at what they have to offer.

Fresh sandwiches. Perfect.

But wait.

Fresh in inverted commas?   Not Fresh, but "Fresh"?

So how old are they, exactly?  And whose notion of "fresh" is being used to define this?  I bet that a fishmonger and an archaeologist would have very different views on what constitutes "fresh".  And where on that scale would a sandwich maker sit? 

If a sandwich maker is leaning towards the archaeologist's view of "fresh" I am pretty sure that sandwich bread would be a bit too crusty for my taste. 

Also, now that I am examining this sign more carefully, define "local" too. 

Do they mean local to the shop?  The salads are made in Salisbury?  That would be fine. 

Or do they mean local to Wiltshire?  The salads are made in Trowbridge, or Devizes , or even God help us, Swindon?  That's a lot of travelling for a salad.  Over bumpy, bendy, country roads with lots of opportunity for salad joggling and spillage. 

Maybe they mean local to the UK.  Those salads could have travelled from Inverness. 

Gone off the sandwich idea now.

Damn.

Values

So hello.  Hope everyone is enjoying the festive season.  Tis the season to be jolly, apparently, but I'll settle for "relaxed and cheerful".  Jolly sounds far too much like hard work, and I am too idle for that right now.

Today we went to Salisbury, ready to hit the big city and check out the sales.  In the big city shops, the ones with more than two styles of shoe, or a wider variety of goods than rat poison, ash buckets and mole traps.  It's not like round here, you know.

As we had got up early*, we arrived in town without having eaten breakfast, so we found a cafe and had eggs Benedict.  And it was GOOD.  Not quite as fab as some of the eggs Benedicts we had in America. but not bad at all for a foggy Wiltshire Wednesday morning.

I picked up a couple of pretty tops in the M&S sale, one of which I had looked at when it was full price, so that was satisfying.  Mr WithaY wanted some new jeans, and also possibly a new tweed jacket.  He can't help it.  He's just naturally tweedy.

We made our way across town to the splendid old-fashioned gents outfitters, and I took a seat in one of the big leather chairs while Mr WithaY rummaged through the racks of tweed jackets.  His rummaging soon took him out of sight.  Another couple wandered into view, him looking at clothes with enthusiasm, her distracted and grumpy.

Him:  (Holding up a vibrant green and yellow tweed jacket) What about this one?
Her:  Ugh.  No.  Put it back.
Him:  *sigh*

He made his slow way along the rack, searching, searching, humming a happy tune.

Him:  (Holding a more muted tweed jacket aloft, swinging it about)  Aha!  I like this one!
Her:  GOD no.

He wandered a bit further, looking hard for the perfect jacket, clearly slightly deflated by her dislike of everything he was choosing.

Him:  (Pulling a brown corduroy jacket out of the rack with glee) ....
Her: (Before he even spoke and without turning round to look) NO!

They wandered out of earshot, her still looking furious, him with the crumbling remains of a spring in his step.  Not for long, I'll be bound.

We left without finding anything either, but at least we weren't looking like we were going to be murdering one another with axes before the New Year**.

I bought a new teapot to replace the one that got smashed to smithereens. 

Today I have emailed more photos of the carnage to the insurance people.  It hadn't occurred to me to call the insurance company until Z mentioned it in a comment, and then I thought I'd see how much it would cost to replace everything. 

Yes, I know.  Muppetry. 

And guess what...the total came to over £500.  Gah! 

So, I photographed as much as I could identify, and have sent the pictures to the insurance people, along with the approximate replacement costs where I could find them.

It wasn't easy, a lot of the glass stuff was literally smashed to dust. 

That's all that was left of a very large glass plate my Mum gave me.  I loved that plate.  Fucking stupid fucking shelf fucking collapse.

Anyhoo.

We also went to Waitrose this afternoon, part of the Big Day Out.  As we walked into the store, an elderly couple were being reunited, surrounded by smiling staff.  It looked a bit like one of those allegorical paintings with Eighteenth Century European royalty posing heroically, surrounded by fawning cherubim and seruphim. 

Her:  They've made three announcements for you!  I've been so worried!

Him:  What?

Her:  Over the speakers...three times they announced that I was looking for you.

Him:  Well I was outside.  By the car.

Her:  Three announcements.  Three!

Him:  I heard NOTHING.

The smiling staff melted away, and the elderly couple left, her still asserting that he had been lost, him insisting that he hadn't. 

Other news:  I have been making sausage rolls.  And readers, they are damn fine.  Father in law WithaY has been much impressed, something that takes quite a lot of doing.

Christmas Day was quiet, we went over to the care home to visit F-in-L, then home for a big roast dinner.  Oh, and The man Who Would Be King on TV. I love that film. 

There was a slight misunderstanding about Christmas gifts.  On our return from F-in-L, I said to Mr WithaY "So...would you like to open your presents now?"

Mr W:  What?  I didn't think I had any presents.

Me:  Of course you have!  Silly!

Mr W:  But we agreed...we weren't going to get presents for each other this year.

Me:  No we didn't!

Mr W:  Yes...we said we were going to buy a new TV instead.

Me:  But we didn't do that.  So you've got presents.

There was a rather awkward silence.

Mr W:  Well, now I feel terrible.

Me:  (Cheerfully, whilst inside I am screaming like a flayed banshee) Oh, never mind...come and open yours.

Good job it's my birthday soon.   Next Christmas I think we will have a written agreement about whether or not we are Doing Presents.  Just to save any arguments. 

Oh, as a cheeful footnote, we went down to my lovely Mum's on Boxing Day and I had lovely, lovely presents from the family.  So yay for families! 

It was great, albeit a bit squashed.  I think there were 16 of us there, at one point we were ALL in the sitting room.  I love Christmas.





*Before 0930.  Fuck knows how I am going to cope when I have to get up before 0600 for work again. 

**Probably.  I'll keep you posted


.

Smashing

Today was the day that disaster struck.

Yes, disaster.

You heard me.

Settle down, dear readers.  Gather your loved ones close and get comfy.  This is a tale of HORROR.  Of WOE.  And of astonishing, catastrophic breakages. 

I was planning to post up some photos of our new kitchen curtains today.  I know how to live, eh?   I decided a few weeks ago that the thin, feeble, pale, unlined curtains that graced our kitchen and dining room were too depressing and crap at insulation, and that They Had To Go.  I ordered some fabric samples from Next Online and showed them to Mr Withay.  He nodded at all of them, and said more or less the same thing to each one:

"That one's fine."

This, I believe, roughly translates as: "For the LOVE OF GOD stop showing me curtain fabric, woman.  I don't care.  Just pick one, and let me be.  Jeez."

I may be mistranslating slightly, but I think that's the gist of it.

We* made our final fabric selection, I measured the windows carefully and sent in the order, and within 7 days our new curtains had arrived.  All lined with lovely thick blackout insulation, and much, much warmer.  Mmmmm cosy.

We still need to get some more curtain rings as we miscalculated the quantity, the new curtains being much heavier than the old ones, but they are up (mostly) and look lovely.  You can't see the saggy end due to my astounding photography.  I haz skillz. 

Oh, and to prove I am a complete domestic goddess, I also ordered some matching cushion covers.  Yeah.  That's how I fucking roll, man.

So, enjoy the beauty of my (apparently) retro curtains while you may.

The disaster happened today.

I was in the kitchen as it was just getting dark, closing the curtains - aren't they lovely? - when I heard a strange noise, like chinaware clinking.  I looked around dopily, then the big cupboard door slowly opened of its own accord. 

Before I had time to do more than go "Whut??" a dish slid gracefully out onto the floor.  It smashed.

I went "WHUT??" again, and then started screaming in horror as an entire shelf full of china, cast iron and marble slid onto the floor in a sort of avalanche of kitchenware, everything breakable smashing into a million billion pieces.

I think I screamed for about 5 minutes solid as the slow, unstoppable slide continued.  The noise was incredible, and it just kept on going.  Then I stood there looking at the heap of smashed stuff on my floor.  Then I went a fetched a broom.  Then I went to find a cardboard box.  Then I fetched the dustpan.

And then I started crying.

And it was at that moment that Mr WithaY came home from work, to find his lovely wife weeping uncontrollably in the kitchen as she shovelled up the pulverized remains into a cardboard box. 

Look away now if you are of a nervous disposition. 

You may remember that blue plate from previous blog postings when I was bragging about my baking.  No more, my friends.  No more.

Look, I have codified it for ease of reference.  I can't help it, I'm a Civil Servant.  There's a ton of other stuff in there too but I couldn't fit all the text on the picture.   Plus I got bored with the labelling thing. 

Our 6 pint cast-iron Le Creuset casserole dish fell out, and amazingly didn't smash the floor tiles.  There are several large unslightly chunks missing from the enamel on the dish, though, and one handle is busted.  Good job it didn't land on my foot, I suppose.

So, all a bit shite really.

Turns out that the shelf was held in place by 4 little metal and rubber plug thingies, and one of them had weasled its way out, dropping the front of the shelf and causing the Avalanche Of Unnecessarily Destructive Force.

Fucker. 

Mr WithaY is going to hammer some batten up over Christmas.  That'll learn it.

I'm still in shock and will need to have medicinal brandy forced between my lips from time to time until I recover.

Otherwise, things are good.  Lots of snow on the ground, and looking forward to Christmas.  Yay. 





*Well, he didn't object to the one I picked.

Rudolph the red - wait, what?

I hope they find their missing reindeer.

It sounds like he'd be pretty easy to identify, though.

Ho ho ho.

Christmas spirit

We've put the Christmas tree up!  I'm so excited.  No, really, I am.

Mr WithaY unravelled 400 miles of LED lights, and went and wrapped them around the rose arch in the front garden, so that is now a vision of glittering be-lighted loveliness.  We put up our tree in a hastily-cleared corner of the sitting room.  It's an artificial one which we bought in 1994, and it looks very pretty, if a little wonky. 

New tree next year, I think.  I'd like a real one, so we might get one in a tub to live in the garden and be hauled indoors for the festive season.  We'll see.

Mr WithaY has carefully pinned up the dozens of small straw dollies in the shape of angels and fir cones all over the hall ceiling, which is very effective.  He gets extra kudos for doing it with a stonking hangover, as well as (he says) the start of a cold.

Yesterday was his work Christmas lunch.  They went to a posh French restaurant in Bath, where he crammed his pie hole with cold meat, and confit of duck, and figs in honey, and all manner of fine wines.  He said it was lovely. 

I think the trouble started after they finished lunch at about 4.30pm, and went on to the pub.  I was half expecting him home any time after about 5, and even looked at the train times online to see roughly when I might be greeting him into the bosom of his adoring home, hem hem.

Well, it got to 8pm, so I had a bite to eat and watched some TV. 

It got to 10pm, and I checked the train times again. 

It got to 11pm, and I went and played World of Warcraft Cataclysm (yes, yes, I know, I know) for a bit, fully expecting him to be home soon, as the last train gets in at 11.15-ish.

Midnight came and went.

I went to bed and read my book, waiting for a phone call to say "I missed the train and I'm mysteriously stuck in Bath/Frome/Trowbridge/Exeter...will you come and fetch me please?"

Readers, it was almost 1am when he finally burst through the front door.  Drink had been taken, he informed me.

He was very cheerful, having had a delightful meal and then a fun time in various pubs in Bath.  And yes, they'd missed the last train and got stuck in Westbury.  I have done that myself, although in my case the last train was cancelled, and I had to phone home to ask Mr WithaY to come and fetch me.  Which he did without a grumble.

I asked how he'd got back from Westbury.

"Taxi!" he bellowed as he hopped around the hallway trying to take his shoe off. 

"Was that very expensive?"

"Fuck yes!"  More hopping, on a different leg as the other shoe was removed. 

"Why didn't you ring me and ask me to come and get you?"

"Hahahahahahahaaaaaaaa.  I'm not brave enough."

Hmmm.

Crystallised

Well, here we are, a mere two weeks from Christmas.  Are we all ready for it, dear readers?  Have we got the mulled wine on a low simmer, the Christmas pudding clamped into the workbench ready to be chiselled into, the turkey nervously fingering its collar out in the garden? 

Me neither.

Although, to be fair, Mr WithaY and I have already made more festive effort than we did over the entire holiday season last year.  We have written and posted our cards, bought a Lidl pannetone, discussed what we want for Christmas lunch - we're hovering on "duck" at the moment, but it may well change - and we plan to put the tree up this weekend.

Last Christmas we did almost none of that.  No tree, as we weren't in the mood to put it up, very few cards and a festive season spent mostly sniffling and coughing at each other.  The aftermath of the SSFH* went on for a very long time, but now we both feel in the appropriate frame of mind to celebrate stuff again.  So that's nice.

All it needs this year is the annual Dinotopia-fest and I will feel as though we are back to normal.

Anyway.  Hasn't it been cold?  I'm well aware that we soft south-western pansies get very little in the way of severe weather compared to those in the frozen wastes up North, but what we do get we make the most of.   We had about a week with real snow on the ground, which was very pretty, and then another week or so of ice on top of that, turning the roads into glass.  GLASS.

Last Sunday, we thought we might pop over to Salisbury, as I was getting stir crazy from a month of housebound coughing due to the ongoing boring chest infection.  The sun was shining, and the snow was melting, and the roads looked fine.  Traffic was moving normally on the main road past the house. 

Mr WithaY's Landrover has been in fine fettle**, so we hopped in and headed off.  As you drive out of our village on the non-main road, there is a sharp bend before you get to the junction with the slightly bigger road.  We went into that bend doing about 20mph, maybe less.  We started to turn the corner, then we lost it and went sideways on a sheet of black ice, sliding gracefully towards the wall. 

Fortunately, there was nothing coming in the opposite direction, and we came to a halt before we hit anything, but it was quite unsettling.  We reached the junction, made an executive decision and turned in the opposite direction to Salisbury, opting instead to pay a visit to father in law WithaY at the nursing home. 

Our trip to the local hospital was less slidey, but it was still pretty cold and icy out there.  I'm glad that they keep X-ray departments so warm.  Having to strip down into a saucy open-backed hospital gown for a chest X-ray would have been miserable otherwise.  I get the results next week sometime, something nice to look forward to. 

The doctor referred me for an X-ray because he was a bit concerned that this is the fourth significant chest infection in two years.  He asked me lots of questions about foreign travel.  Had I been anywhere exotic recently?  Did I do much air travel?  Do I have any close friends who have come back from the Far East lately? 

Other than the flights to and from Boston this summer, I haven't been on a plane for ages.  None of my friends have been anywhere exotic as far as I know.  The closest thing to foreign travel is the bus from Waterloo to the office, which sounds like a lively debate at the UN most mornings, I suppose.

Apparently it's my lower right lung that was "rattling" - the same one that was badly infected last time, so I have a feeling it never went away properly.  Anyone would think I smoked 60 a day.  I have NEVER smoked.  Ever.  Gah.

So anyway.  As my car died, and the roads were too icy anyway, I went for a short stroll the other morning.  I took my camera, because the hoar frost was incredible.  I wore the hat with ear flaps, in case you were wondering.

It was bloody freezing though, so I didn't go very far before realising I couldn't feel my fingers.

How Christmassy is this, eh?  Very, that's how.

I saw some herons and egrets in the river, but by the time my frozen sausage fingers got my camera out, they had buggered off.

Look, there he goes, buggering off.

Brrr.

Now I need a cup of tea.  And possibly a crumpet.  With butter and jam.

Which reminds me, the ongoing weight loss has stalled a little, probably due to 4 weeks of chest infection and 2 courses of antibiotics.  And shitloads of crumpets.

The last lot of antibiotics I was on apparently cause "spontaneous tendon rupture" so I am still half expecting my arms and legs to fall off. 
 
I'll let you know.







*Shit storm from Hades.  Yes, I am stilll going on about it.

**Unlike my car which died after three days of the cold, and had to have its battery recharged.  I know how it felt, to be honest