Had a bit of a shock earlier in the week when I saw what I thought was the Olympic torch procession coming up the hill. They’re not even due round here until mid July so it did seem odd, but given the number of cock-ups we’ve had so far surrounding The Games I wouldn’t have been overly surprised. It turned out to be the villagers storming the castle AGAIN: That’s the third drawbridge I’ve lost this year and I never get a penny back on the insurance. Thank God I’d had the leak in the moat bunged up and a fresh delivery of boiling oil, or there might have been no blog today at all.
Ben has been away in Edinburgh with his BFF since Sunday, and it’s been really strange without him. Daft, because if it was a normal skool week he wouldn’t be about anyway, but with the bank hols and that I’ve really missed him. Oh well, he’s back tonight and chances are that by Saturday he’ll be driving me bonkers again. Absence makes the heart grow fonder and all that. He phoned just now, and will be home around midnight. His BFF’s mum had said if they were back too late he could sleep round theirs and I could pick him up in the morning. The words ‘welcome’ ‘worn-out’ ‘his’ and ‘he’s’ come to mind, but not necessarily in that order.
So, hasn’t it been a great Jubilee? Lots of soggy people sitting at soggy trestle tables eating soggy crisps, sossages, and cupcakes and wishing they were indoors in the warm with their feet up. Not really giving a toss about the queen, I WAS indoors in the warm with my feet up for most of it, complaining bitterly about the hi-jacking of the regular weekend TV – bad enough under normal circumstances – to make way for hour after hour of footage featuring soggy people sitting at soggy trestle tables etc etc and over-the-hill musicians and entertainers doing their bit to draw attention away from the fact that it was all costing billions in an economic climate where the vast majority of dear ol’ Bettie’s loyal subjects are on their uppers. Still, any excuse for a piss up, eh? Continue reading “Funny Old Week…”
No energy for a good rant this week so today’s blog hasn’t really got a theme and is more of a personal ramble. If you’re up for it put on some comfy-but-sturdy walking shoes and grab a bottle of spring water, but I’ll not be offended if you decide to just put your feet up and watch the telly instead. Unless it’s Jeremy Kyle, of course, which is offensive by definition.
A funny old week without any OU deadlines to worry about. Not sure how I feel about that yet, but the word ‘uneasy’ certainly seems appropriate. Have to wait and see…
Walking back from the cash-point after collecting son’s spending money (he’s off to Edinburgh next week with his BFF) I was hit by a couple of drips of rain and there seem to be quite a few filfy looking clouds floating about up there. Such a contrast to the little fluffy Orb-worthy white ones (lil-lil-little-li-li-li-little fluffy clouds) that dotted the sky on Tuesday when I spent the afternoon cycling round the park and lake with a friend before returning home, sore-bottomed but pleasingly invigorated, for some chicken thighs and couscous and lashings of grown-up’s ‘pop’. Do those drips mean summer is over and we’re back into the realm of ‘wettest whatever on record’ and ironic comments about hosepipe bans? I hope not – I like sunshine and beer gardens and li-li-little fluffy clouds and stuff, and they took a long time getting here this year. Continue reading “Just Doing This Now…”
A little extra blog today in celebration of the sunshine actually lasting into the weekend…
I’ve reclaimed my garden today – well, the bits of it I laughingly refer to as ‘lawn’ at least. The rockery (pile of discarded bricks, paving slabs and angle iron) and shrubbery (nettles, brambles and royal hogweed) will have to wait for another day, but not a bad start, all things considered. I’ve probably mentioned it before, but the problem is, you see, that the garden lays a bit damp. Well when I say ‘bit’… Let’s put it this way: my garden makes Sir Ralph Mayhew’s bottom field look like the Gobi dessert… And when I say ‘lawn’ I’m actually referring to a couple of patches of moss, dandelions, watercress, bindweed and – in a very wet year – seaweed that separate the top of the garden, where all the local cats shit and my son keeps his trampoline, from the bottom of the garden, where my own cat shits and we keep the patio furniture and washing line. So not so much mowing the lawn as redistributing it, and bloody hard work it is too.
Having said that, after months of rain followed by days of sunshine even the watercress and dandelions had bolted and the garden had, to coin a horticultural term I originally picked up from Charlie ‘two lumps’ Dimmock, “Gone F*****g Mental.” Even the cat turds had sprouted, which is a first – though to be honest ‘sprouted’ is probably not the right word. It’s more of a fungal style life-cycle, truth be told, where they puff up to about three times their original size then burst with a gentle ‘pooff’, casting spores the entire length of the garden. I think I’ll take her off that hi-fibre ‘sensitive’ dry mix and put her back onto the wet stuff, actually. It may give her the squitts, but at least it seems biodegradable.
Continue reading “Something for the weekend….”
Have you ever been compared to an abusive, alcoholic, prostitute murdering villain with a penchant for housebreaking and kidnapping? No? Gotta say, it was a first for me too!
Of course, it was all done in the best possible taste (uncrosses legs in the manner of Kenny Everett playing Cupid Stunt flashing suspenders and crimson gusset at camera) and arose during a very impromptu but totally wonderful drinking-to-excess-and-partying-to-the-wee-hours session that evolved last night from what was a very staid inaugural meeting of a very nice group of people known (to me at least) as The Tunbridge Wells Village Green Preservation Society.
More of the TWVGPS some other time, as they don’t really feature in this bit other than as the launch pad for what followed – viz the drinking to excess, partying to the wee hours stuff – when myself and a certain Dr of my acquaintance decided after the meeting to rendezvous with some friends who had been enjoying a polyopticon presentation of ‘Withnail and I’ at a local pub and eatery. When the film finished they came downstairs to join us at the bar and it was then that the young lady in question (“that was no young lady, that was…”.) leapt at me in a most melodramatic fashion, pointing a sinister finger and shouting ‘Lawks a mercy, guvnor, it’s Bill bleedin’ Sykes’!
I noticed her eyes were rolling like those of a startled colt and that she seemed a bit ‘twitchy’, so initially wondered if she’d taken the film to heart and partaken of a ‘Camberwell Carrot’, but then realised the eye-rolling was dramatic license and that the ‘twitching’ was in fact the effects of gravity working on her unfettered upper ladybits, which had been liberated for the evening from the constrictions of undergarments. While the influence of ‘PG’ (not the tea) was very much in evidence, it was actually the effects of mine own dulcet tones stirring her to these peaks of thespian extreme and her detection of the light cockney inflection that vies for dominance with the Sussex burr in my regular speaking voice.
Continue reading “Oh wouldn’t it be Luvverly? (Yes, it was, thank you…)”
Oh dear. Oh dear, oh dear. Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear. Writer’s block, dear, and a bad bout too. Well when I say ‘writer’s block’ it’s more a case of essayist’s encumbrance or scholar’s stoppage, because it’s not writing per se that’s the problem but writing this final bloody assignment for my OU course. When people write about writer’s block (an oxymoron, surely, Shirley?) they tend to write about staring at a blank page and not knowing where to start or not having an ideas to start with, and neither of those things – as evidenced by this very writing wot you are reading at this very moment (or possibly thinking about, having read earlier, which is ever so flattering, thank you very much, but probably not the case in any case) – are precisely the problem. To be honest, I’d never let a silly little thing like not having any ideas stop me from writing anyway; I’d just tap out a load of old waffle like this and bung it up as a ‘blog’ or something. Yerse…
So it’s not that kind of writer’s block I’m talking about. It’s the other kind – where I’ve got a specific ‘thing’ to write and have been given specific instructions on how to write it and tons of background material to consult while writing and heaps of quotable quotes by people who seem to know what they’re talking about to quote from and I still can’t get the bloody thing written. Insane, isn’t it? To paraphrase Buzz Lightyear; “That’s not writing, it’s summarising with style.” And I tend to agree with him (well not ‘him’, but the paraphrased ‘him’. And I’m not ‘Woody’ either, though I have on occasion had to struggle with a snake in my boot ;)), which may be part of the problem. So it’s not ‘writer’s block’ or ‘essayists encumbrance’ or ‘scholar’s stoppage’ or any other nicely alliterative allusion to some sort of mental or physical barrier – it is good, old fashioned FEAR, plain and simple. I am a coward. Probably a custardy one, with pockets full of mustard to boot, if the old playground chant offers anything to go by (I’ve just looked; it doesn’t. No mustard, just some lint, two elastic bands and a dead mouse the cat brought in which I’m going to scare Julie Harris with later). Continue reading “SHOUTING ONE OUT…”