A Pain In the Jaw, Medical Musical Chairs, A One-sided Christmas and Under the Knife.

In  November I became aware of a large swelling in my mouth. Now some friends had kindly suggested that it was probably just my tongue but I knew there was more to it and indeed there was. One of my canine tusks was also rather tender so I repaired, unwillingly, to my dentist. Now Kojak is very good at regular dental inspections, dear reader, but I am one of those who have a white knuckled grip on the chair before the  orthodontist even says "hello". It transpired that my worst fears had been realised. I needed root canal treatment on one of the very fangs that Count Dracula would have counted as essential to carry out his nocturnal proclivities. There was much drilling and cleaning out - I cannot bear to go into details of such trauma. Suffice to say that despite the dental work being completed satisfactorily, the large abscess still stubbornly refused to go down even after a couple of courses of antibiotices. The dentist sadly informed me that hospital treatment would be needed.

A few weeks later I received a letter from the hospital with mixed information. The good news was that the Oral Surgery Dept. were to make an appointment. The not so good news was that there was a five week waiting list. Given that the festive season was almost upon us and the size of the abscess was seriously limiting my capacity for tasty Christmas fare I hastened to the hospital's Accident & Emergency Department in the big city of Preston. I found myself in the, sadly, not unfamiliar game of Medical Musical Chairs. Details were taken by a clerk, after an hour, further details were taken by a triage nurse and after 2 hours a junior doctor saw me in an office (no treatment bays available). Off she went to ask her senior doctor and came back with a prescription for yet more pills as in their opinion the ailment wasn't serious enough for immediate treatment. I set off up to God's own County of Durham for the Festive season. Naturally the new pills did absolutely nothing so I spent a rather one-sided Christmas carefully eating my turkey and Christmas pud with the right-hand side of my mouth.

On February 8th I finally saw a consultant who announced, after x-rays involving more musical chairs, that   the infection was so deeply rooted it would involve an operation under a general anaesthetic. He recognised the long delay in treatment and promised he would do his best to hasten things. True to his word I presented myself at the big city hospital at 3,30pm on February 22nd after the usual starvation preparation involving food and liquid. There was also a cigarette ban which caused Kojak most anxiety.  After being directed to the ward day room I sat... and sat... until after an hour I was seen by the first of 4 medical staff in intervals of several hours. It was 10.30pm when I awoke from the anaesthetic. I was conscious of the fact that my sainted pal Ian was on standby to give me a lift home. First I had to prove that I could eat something without throwing up and also dermonstrate that my bladder was in working order. This rather worried me as I'd had no liquids for most of the day and being a gentleman of a certain age such things can be er... erratic. I demolished a jug of water , refused the proffered toast - toast? after a mouth and jaw operation before which the surgeon recommended soft foods for 3 days? At that time of night all they had was a portion of "Oats So Simple, Golden Syrup flavour". I have to say that I prefer the real thing! By this time it was 11.30 and Ian was avoiding car parking charges by furtively moving his car about  the nether regions of the hospital, no doubt being tracked by security cameras. Having demonstrated digestive and bladder successes I informed the nurse that I was ready to leave. She then advised that as I had no-one to look after me at home for the next 24 hours I could not be discharged. Now all this information was already in my notes and the  admission letter only mentioned that I should not drive. A further delay was that I needed a doctor to sign my discharge and one would not be available for at least 30 minutes. Rather fed up with all this and conscious of the fact that they had a severe shortage of beds I decided to discharge myself, signing the form warning me of possible death from bleeding, possible infection, bird flu or bubonic plague.

 Summoning Ian from his hiding place I made my escape. Returning to Chez Kojak there was a minor scuffle for the bathroom as both of us had been denied it due to taxi duties and excessive consumption of water to satisfy post-operation tests.

A Grecian Shanghai, Scootered and Train Lagged.

I last left you, dear readers, having returned from sunny Malta. Since then, while life at Chez Kojak has not been the epitome of boredom, the summer, such as it was, passed in a fairly humdrum way  with the exception of course, of the ongoing war of attrition against the evil Uberbinfuhrer and his henchmen

As the yearly cycle swung into September I began to look forward to my usual Autumnal visitation to the Grecian Isles. I made the normal rendezvous with travelling companions at Manchester Airport after a nocturnal and expensive taxi ride to the big city of Preston thanks to the evil Transpennine Express having the temerity to exclude the Gare de Kojak from their stopping places. A few more such journeys and it may be worthwhile buying the taxi company. But I digress, once again.  There was some jocularity when meeting my companions when it was suggested that we walk to the end of the concourse to partake of a cigarette. I declined, having encountered, the previous year, the unfortunate attentions of a pigeon suffering from chronic irritable bowel syndrome. It took 2 packets of Boots Cucumber wipes and a spray from every tester in the Duty Free Shop to mitigate the effect.
 

The middle section. 10 metres in...

The flight passed without incident but on landing at the island of Rhodes we were informed that due to  problems with ferries we were required to spend one night there before catching the ferry the next morning. This caused some anxiety as we had heard prior horror stories of abandonment in accommodation that was rat-infested, liable to imminent collapse and plagued by white slavers etc.. In the event we were relieved to be placed in a very pleasant hotel. I was sure there had to be some mistake when I opened the door to my own room. It was well appointed although a tad on the large side.  When I say large, it contained six beds in three different sections. It was so long that I could barely see the far end and it was well into the next day before I discovered there was a very pleasant lawn and well furnished patio there
.
The rest of the holiday passed without incident or injury (which is unusual for Kojak) Now during my sojourn, my great friend there invited the ensemble to his house for a meal. We knew this was seriously good nosh because he had been a ships cook in his merchant navy days and the meal was guaranteed to be haute Greek cuisine. During the meal he once again asked me to return to the isle in 4 weeks to celebrate his name day. He is named after the Archangel Michael and the island possesses a very famous icon of the said Archangel endued with miraculous powers. The name day celebrations were therefore considerable and attended by Greeks from far & wide. I began my usual excuses, flight difficulties etc. but was shanghai'd by a friend who dropped me in by informing him that cheap flights to Athens now operated from Manchester out of season. I arrived home and  was promptly subjected to more pressure when the complete flight schedule was emailed to me.  By this time I was feeling more than a little beleaguered as I was also organising a reunion of my fellow holidaymakers in the English lakes. And so it was that in early November I again found myself in Greece, this time staying with my Greek friend and his family. A pleasant week was spent including many trips up into the mountains to various monasterys where we were treated to splendid Greek hospitality. The trips were made on the back of a friend's scooter and being a gentleman of a certain age I found the experience resulted in some aches & pains. After one trip off road on a rather rough track I needed to be winched off the scooter. My flight home via Athens went to time and I landed in good time to catch the planned train home. Not to be, dear reader. After flying across Europe without incident I once again fell victim to the machinations of the evil Transpennine Express. The first train was cancelled, the second train broke down and  the third one was 25 minutes late resulting in a lengthy wait on a cold, wet and windy platform.  Thoroughly train-lagged, the holiday was over, I barely had time to thaw out before it was Monday morning and evil bin day...

A Maltese Cross and Sit Down you're rocking the Boat

You may recall, dear reader, that my last missive mentioned a brief sojourn in the sunny climes of the island of Malta. I travelled up to God's own county of Durham to join friends before flying off to the George Cross island. The geography of the resort was not dissimilar to the Greek island of Symi with land rising rather steeply from the sea. Indeed  there was a street of steps right outside the hotel or rather in the middle of the hotel because one annex was actually on the other side of the street. Naturally, Kojak's apartment was in the annex... This meant going down 6 floors in a lift, burrowing through a tunnel under the steps and then going back up 6 floors in another lift. Leaving and then subsequently trying to find my apartment was therefore an exciting process each day. This was made more interesting by the hotels strange practise of numbering the floors from 1 downwards from the reception and upwards from 1 in the annex. We spent many happy hours emerging from one of the several lifts to find ourselves totally lost...

Soon to disappear

Like all good tourists we availed ourselves of the unique Maltese buses. Being a gentleman of a certain age many of the older models were familiar from my childhood, not least because the colour scheme was the same as my old local charabanc company.  We were fortunate to ride on them as from July 3rd the buses have been replaced by ultra-modern soulless vehicles much to the dismay and anger of many of the old, owner drivers. The current answer to the age old question of "How do you make a Maltese Cross" is to mention the Arriva bus Company!

Before the deluge

A holiday with Kojak is seldom without incident of course and this vacation, dear reader, was no exception. Exhausted and overheated by an exploration around one of the fortifications of the Grand Harbour we were diverted from our intended return bus ride by the offer of a ferry trip back in a small traditional Maltese dghajsa. Enthralled at viewing the harbour from the sea we accepted with alacrity, though not after haggling down the fare. Five of us plus the ferryman made for a tight squeeze in the small craft but undeterred, we cast off. Crossing the breakwater out of the harbour we encountered choppy seas which began to rock the boat. Unfortunately we also encountered the considerable wash of an incoming motor launch which did not see fit to slow down. Our boat began to rock rather alarmingly and some water lapped over the gunwale into the boat causing one of us to rapidly leave his seat with an anguished yelp after a surprise dousing. Cries from the boatman to "sit down" coincided with the small outboard motor cutting out. At this point I did not think it wise to mention the absence of any lifejackets... I have to say that I enjoyed the whole experience immensely but then I did not have to subsequently walk around with a damp derriere.

A Sore Neck, A Bad Organ and a Tiresome Store Card

Plans to travel up to God's own county of Durham had twice to be put on hold thanks to my neck and shoulder problem playing up. I'd like to describe this as a war wound because it sounds much more romantic than a car wound, which is what it is. Basically people kept driving into me despite frequent changes of car and colour. Three cars were written off in two years - and you think you're unlucky?

Monday morning dawned earlier than I would wish thanks to the evil Uberbinherren's thoughtless diktat and I once again had to leave the comfort of the 4 drawer sprung edge divan. All three sorties by the recycling binherren passed without incident. Call Kojak a sceptic if you will but I continue to feel uneasy by their meek behaviour during the last few weeks.

On Tuesday I went to the metropolis of Manchester to attend a concert with my slightly lapsed veggie friend. A tedious journey there thanks to the evil Transpennine Express not deigning to stop at my station. I was particularly looking forward to it as it featured the magnificent organ at the Bridgewater Hall. The organist (I shall not name him) was a renowned musician, according to the programme notes and I had obtained particularly good seats to get the best from the performance. We settled into our seats and awaited the maestro with anticipation. On he strode to the stage but instead of the usual verbal introduction he simply commenced to play. Quel disappointment! Notes were bumbled and timing was out several times during the first piece. This was repeated throughout the performance and I wondered if his unwillingness to speak was due to embarrassment. Standing outside at the interval we saw one man dump his programme in a rubbish bin and walk off. Since I had chosen this particular concert I spent much of the second half apologising to my pal. We did manage to claw back some pleasure from the evening by repairing to "The Briton's Protection", an excellent hostelry purveying a fine selection of cask ales. Once again our enjoyment was marred by having to leave early thanks to the thoughtless Transpennine Express. Even so, it was 11.30pm when I reached the warm comfort of Chez Kojak.

A few weeks ago I had occasion to travel to the big city of Preston. While I was there I happened to wander into one of the larger department stores, the one which begins with "Deb" and ends with "hams". I am not quite sure how this happened. One moment I was passing a "Sale" sign in the window and the next moment I found myself inside. There were many very good bargains to be had in the bedding department and as I had some rather elderly bedding I felt compelled to purchase several items. When I came to pay, the very helpful lady mentioned that if I signed up for a store card I would get a further 10% reduction that day and a similar reduction each time I used the card. As an added bonus I would be entitled to a free tea or coffee in the cafeteria. Since I am a gentleman of a certain age, the facilities provided in the cafeteria were, by this time, an attraction in themselves and the free beverage would spare me the embarrassment of sneaking in to avail myself of them. Beguiled by all these attractions I duly signed, oblivious of the growing queue behind me.
The bill for all my bargains arrived this week and having previously shopped online at this store I thought I would register the store card to make payment more easy. Big mistake! Despite all my efforts the system refused to acknowledge the card. Finally phoning the so-called "helpline" and after being passed from pillar to post in various countries I was informed that the system would not accept details if I used the Mozilla Firefox internet provider! Although this seemed ridiculous I changed to Internet Explorer but with exactly the same result.  By this time Kojak's ire was well and truly up! I refused to call the Customer Service number as I did not see why I should  pay 10p per minute for a phone call when their system was clearly at fault. I sent an irate email informing them that they could keep their damned card and in future would shop elsewhere. Several days later I am still awaiting a reply. When I attempted to make a payment online without the card I discovered that although the card bears the shop's name it is actually managed by one of the major banks.  A further long and complicated procedure followed before I could pay my debts. In all my internet life I have never experienced so much trouble to pay for an item online. Thank goodness I do not bank with Santander!

English Summer

 
Next weekend I depart for the sunny shores of Malta for a weeks holiday with friends. Looking at the view from Chez Kojak and mindful of the weather forecast for the coming week I can hardly wait!

Barefaced Cheek/Feet, A Decapitation and A Tamed Bin Man?

You will excuse my absence of late, dear reader but Kojak has been bathing his carcase in the Grecian sun.
My suitcase had barely settled in the marble halls of Chez Kojak before I was whisked away to the big city of Preston. My sainted friend Margs had decided that as an early multiple birthday celebration she would treat myself and 2 others of our circle to front row seats at a Rhythm & Blues concert. The guest star was the singer Sandie Shaw and being a gentleman of a certain age I can remember her debut on black & white television. True to form she appeared without shoes and wearing a 60s very mini mini-dress. Being in the front row we were only a few feet away from the stage and as she advanced towards the front I was able to see, in addition to the cellulite, that she was not in fact barefoot but wearing tights. When she sat astride a stool right in front of pal Ian (he of the patio building) and myself we were also able to see a lot more than we wished to, or was possibly intended...
Recovering our composure we somehow managed to last out until the finale. Jools Holland (for it was he) exhorted the audience to stand up and dance. Now this was all very well but a dozen or two stood up and danced in front of the stage which of course meant that they were in front of us. Now prior to this several people had crept along the stage front to take photos of the performers. Most had the good grace to crouch down so as not to obscure other's view of the stage. One, may she be forever damned, trotted back & forwards clicking away with her camera seemingly oblivious to anyone else around. I long for the day when I see her in a shop queue. If she objects to me trotting in front of her I have the ideal retort! The dancers simply ignored the front row (who had not paid cheaply for that privilege) so for the last 10 minutes of the perfomance all I saw was a line of gyrating backsides none of which were particularly attractive. A classic case of barefaced cheek(s).


All this talk of backsides leads me smoothly to backslides. A cause for concern during my Grecian sojourn was my absence on bin days and whether this would undo all my hard work and constant vigilance. The first bin day was also a recycling one and as usual, thanks to the evil Uberbinfuhrer's thoughtless diktat I had to lever my protesting carcase out of the 4 drawer sprung edge divan in the middle of the night. One result of the progression of the seasons is that the early morning warning headlights are not now in evidence so I had to be extra alert.  The first two binherren attacks were intercepted and passed without incident. Thanks to the random tactics now adopted by the enemy the final assault was conducted this time by the green box Panzers, possibly the most evil of the evil. Once again I opened fire first, opening the door with alacrity to intercept the usual under arm throw. To my surprise the sturmbahnbinherren was meekly placing the box under the porch. I almost tripped over him.  As he walked away he said "I put it there because I knew you'd be out pretty soon" I was speechless - and that, dear reader, is a rare occurrence. Are hostilities over? At the risk of appearing cynical, somehow I doubt it.

Before

After

You may recall that instead of the traditional Easter egg I received a chocolate rabbit. With great forebearance and not a little denial and apart from a slight nibble behind the ears I had refrained from consuming the said lapin. It was therefore largely intact upon my return from sunnier climes. 
Not so now, dear reader. Of the once cute bunnikins nothing now remains but a sad torso. Rudyard Kipling wrote "If you can keep your head while all about you are losing theirs" Well, Brer Rabbit has well and truly been decapitated.

An Uncertain Boiler and The Best Easter Card.

The gas man returned as duly promised on Easter Saturday bringing with him his own little Easter Egg in the shape of the promised part. Whether or not this has solved the problem is, as yet, uncertain as due to the weather being unseasonably warm there has been no need for heating and as the two are inexorably linked, not as much need for heating water.  Consequently the heating system has not been as hot and has not therefore needed cooling.  After the cloying heat of Good Friday's brief encounter with a hot oven I am in no hurry to repeat the experience.

Today was Easter Day and I was still a tad piqued at remaining at Chez Kojak instead of  enjoying Easter with friend and family. And so it was at teatime that I was less than enchanted to hear the doorbell being rung closely followed by a rapid knocking sound interspersed with children's voices. At the risk of being thought to be a modern incarnation of Ebeneezer Scrooge I have little time for urchins who reappear at my door two days after Halloween demanding "A penny for the guy" when there is no guy visible as far as the horizon. A similar scenario occurs weeks before Yuletide when one shout of "We wish you a Merry Christmas" coupled with a plethora of outstretched hands is deemed sufficient to be called Carol Singing. Once again I digress but you will have grasped my  train of thought. I was saddened that Easter seemed to have succumbed to such mercenary traits but not completely surprised.

From Dasha, Year 3

Prepared to rebuff such entreaties I opened the door. A young girl thrust a folded sheet of paper into my hand and said "Happy Easter" but instead of holding out her hand she ran off to join her two companions who were at the next house. It was only after I'd closed the door that I realised what I'd been given. On the outside was written in pencil "From Dasha year 3" and inside was the message "Happy Easter" underneath which was drawn a shaky oval with the word "egg" written inside it.

Happy Easter "Egg"!

The little girl had made the cards and was delivering them to each house.  I was so impressed by this and not a little guilty that I hastened to the fridge and grabbed my small but cherished cache of Snickers bars. Opening the front door I called the little girl back and explained that I did not have any Easter eggs to give her but instructed her to share the sweets among her friends. 

It was a nice end to the day and perhaps a fitting demonstration of what Easter is all about - a simple gift of joy. I was so touched by this that I must confess to having a slight lump in my throat. But in case any evil binherren are reading this... tomorrow is quite another (recycling) day... 

Sinful Washing, Penitential Shower and Cheesed Off

The run up to the Easter weekend, dear reader has been somewhat sporadic. I made the mistake of summoning the gas man to Chez Kojak. For some time I have been a tad disturbed by nocturnal noises from my central heating boiler. To give it it's due, it does work efficiently enough but after it has switched off a fan or some such technical thing  switches on to disperse unwanted heat. Unfortunately it appears to be reverborating against something. At first it was just a faint background noise but now it seems to resonate throughout the house like a diesel engine revving and dying back. Anyone who has read Harry Potter and The Chamber Pot of Secrets will be alarmed to know that the noise seems to be coming from the pipes... Anyway, I digress again. Regular readers of course will know that I frequently digress and I propose to continue to do so...
My sainted neighbour has made no complaint but he must have noticed the nocturnal commotion so something had to be done. Naturally I picked a bad time, the proximity of Easter weekend and a princely wedding made inroads into the working week but I am heading for the Grecian isles shortly so I wanted to have the old boiler sorted. I also intended to head up to God's own county of Durham to stay with my sainted sister over the Easter weekend. Of course the best British Gas could do was Maundy Thursday and as usual, the gas man decided that he would renew a part that he didn't possess and would not possess until Easter Saturday. With a heavy heart and noisy boiler I cancelled my pilgrimage north.
The approaching Grecian jaunt and the promise of good weather caused me to embark on a major spot of laundering - not the money sort but the undergarments and sprung edge 4 drawer divan bedding type. Good Friday dawned and saw me furtively and guiltily sneaking some washing on the rotary dryer. My mother's horror of such an act haunted me - washing was never hung out on a Sunday and  any such behaviour on Good Friday would have been condemned as blasphemy. I thought I'd got away with things until late afternoon when the Good Lord evidently spotted it and sent a brief but heavy shower to put an end of such capers. At least I was spared a plague of locusts and rivers of blood but I dare not commence holiday ironing on Easter Sunday!
Diverted by boiler antics it was late on Thursday before I made it to the supermarket for a spot of trolley rage. Now the shops don't even close on Good Friday these days but one would have thought that there was a famine imminently upon us judging by the crowds of people jostling to fill their trolleys to bursting. A ripe breeding ground for a quick rage or three and I indulged with relish. I did manage to procure some fish for the next day and ambitiously planned a tasty fish pie with smoked fish in a cheese sauce. By the time I'd salvaged my sinful laundry from the penitential shower on Friday it was quite late in the day and still very hot and humid. Just ripe for the addition of a hot oven. Some time later, surveying the results of my culinary labours after much cooking and washing up I was so hot and bothered that I'd quite lost my appetite. In fact one could say that I was thoroughly cheesed off.
Today, most of the fish pie is now sitting in the fridge...

Return to Prison, Kidnap and an Easter Bunny

Life in Chez Kojak has been rather humdrum of late, dear reader so I did not feel that there was anything of interest to put in a blog. After some chivvying from a fellow blogger (you know who you are, Su) I have at last put pen to paper or, in this age of technology, finger to keyboard. I say finger singular because I am not a touch typist. A colleague at work once described my method (and his) as "turkey typing" - pecking at the keyboard with one finger of each hand.  I have improved on this and even use two fingers now, showing off by hitting the space key with my thumb for extra flair!

Has Spring really sprung?

My friend the Blessed Liz came to stay last weekend, travelling up from Bristol where she works at present. After a good start to the journey she phoned when she hit the M6 motorway and promptly came to a crawl. She is very proficient at the "hands free" method of mobile telephony and has been known to conduct staff meetings from the roadside thereby earning the nickname of "Lay-by Liz". Her status updates do enable me to have a meal ready for her arrival and more importantly a pot of tea. She is an ex-civil servant and so, like me, recognises that tea is the real staff of life. Her arrival also heralded a touch of Spring in these northern climes. On Saturday morning we paid a return visit to Butlins, the local branch of Her Majesty's Open Prisons. We were not reporting there as a result of our misdemeanours, though they are probably many, nor were we visiting relatives as a fellow blogger (you know who you are, Su) unkindly opined. The prison has a shop where one can buy garden produce, bacon etc, and garden furniture all of which is grown, raised or made by the inmates. We were served by Ian who was Category B, blood group A and diabetic - or so his ID tag said. On Saturday afternoon  we were joined by our friend Margs who as usual arrived bearing gifts for everyone.

Does this really look like me?

Our presents were chocolate Easter Bunnys and Margs remarked that mine actually looked like me. Not only does Margs shower gifts on everyone but she normally insists on driving us to whatever destination we have planned. Liz and I decided beforehand that this time I would drive. This was not an easy task as Margs normally abandons her car in front of ours. After a brief struggle we forced her to park in an adjacent space and bundled her into my car. It looked for all the world like a kidnap and indeed it was! We set off to visit a garden centre some miles away leaving our bespoke Easter Bunnys to guard Chez Kojak. A pleasant afternoon was spent as well as some money, buying Easter gifts. Liz had not only brought a touch of Spring with her but also a computer for our friend Ian, he of the patio building, to sort out. Liz departed on Sunday lunchtime and Ian arrived shortly after. He is also an ex-civil servant so a pot or two of tea was naturally consumed.


Monday was recycling bin day so once again I was unwillingly forced out of the 4 drawer sprung edge divan in the middle of the night to do battle with the evil binherren. In the past one could time their Blitzkriegs and their order of battle. Of late they have resorted to random guerrilla sorties in order to surprise unwary council taxpayers. This necessitates a state of red alert all morning and is very fatiguing for gentlemen of a certain age.  The Green Bin and Green Box Panzers were successfully repulsed early in the morning but the White Sack Einheits were conspicuous by their absence for several hours. This was possibly a cunning ploy to lull me into a false sense of security. Finally they arrived and under close scrutiny from behind the curtains I was surprised to see them carefully replace the sack, tucking it into the handle of the storage cupboard. Gratified at this I allowed them to retreat unharmed before emerging from my sentry post. Now like all good citizens I am aware of the nefarious habit of identity theft and I carefully shred any paper items that might be of use to villains.  Yes, the evil and cunning binherren had tucked the sack into the door handle but he had done so leaving it upside down and clearly had only given it a cursory shake. The portal of Chez Kojak looked like the aftermath of a wedding. In the words of the song, the answer was blowing in the wind along with a substantial amount of shredded paper! Hostilities are far from over!

All Quiet on Kojak's Front, a Spectacle, Mysterious Milk and Willy-Nilly Boxes

After my sojourn in western parts I spent a relatively peaceful week, going nowhere and seeing, if not no-one then certainly very few. This may seem boring but I was glad of the unremarkable interlude. The train journeys, as with all long journeys, had resulted in my neck etc. playing up so I was glad that there was nothing which demanded my urgent attention or presence. 
Before I departed for the big city of Bristol I had gone for my biannual eye test. Being a gentleman of a certain age one finds that the small print seems to be getting smaller every year or so. The optician gave his opthalmic opinion that my right eye has deteriorated very slightly but my left eye had actually improved a little. He admitted that this was a very rare occurence. Now I don't wish to cast opthalmic aspersions on Specsavers but it's more likely that they had previously given me the wrong lens. Since I still don't feel up to a longish drive my new specs are languishing in their Preston branch.
On Wednesday my neighbour drew my attention to a litre of milk which had mysteriously appeared on my doorstep. Regular readers of my travails will know that I obtain my milk from a friendly local farmer so it has been a long time since my doorstep was graced with milk. As it was late in the day before the bottle was spotted it was well on it's way to become yoghurt. No-one has called to tout for my milk custom so the mystery remains.

Bin day 7am

Monday dawned and with it the fortnightly attack of the evil recycling binherren. Now it was quite foggy when I extricated my unwilling carcase from the sprung edge 4 drawer etc. in the middle of the night to do battle with them. Would they sneak in under cover of the inclement weather? I could be certain of 3 seperate forays by them so I had to be extra alert. There was an attempt at confusion when the first sortie arrived out of the usual order of battle. I was expecting the green bin brigade when out of the mists emerged a white sack man! The next assault was by the belated green binherren. The morning dragged on with still no sign of the green box troops. I made and ate a nervous breakfast expecting that a sneak attack would be made while I was buttering toast. It was well past midday and I was contemplating a verbal telephone assault on the Oberbinfuhrer when a large grey bin trundled out of the fog. The man propelling it began to empty the various green boxes in Chez Kojak's cul-de-sac. Now you would think that as the boxes no longer had to be taken to the lorry they would  not now be scattered willy-nilly. Not so! Unwilling to take the few steps needed to return the bins from whence they came he practised the art of under arm bowling. Most residents in my little court have the misfortune to be under retirement age and are usually at work so they have no control over such antics but not I, dear reader, not I!  I lurked until he had emptied my green box and then sprang out of hiding. This sounds rather more athletic than it actually was since I merely opened the front door with a flourish and fixed him with a baleful look. It had the desired effect though as he meekly replaced the bin precisely where it had been. Victory was mine... for the next 2 weeks anyway.

Illiterate Travellers, Architecture and Beer and A Drugged Touch of Shakespeare

Last Thursday I had to once again arise from the sprung edge 4 drawer divan at an early hour. For once this was not an unwilling awakening as I was to set off  on a visit to another big city, this time to the lush western climate of Bristol. A friend had kindly invited me down for a few days. We were to visit other friends in the area and inspect the architecture of Isembard Kingdom Brunel's passenger shed at Bristol Templemeads station. Train tickets were purchased and seats reserved well in advance so I anticipated no problems as I boarded the train for the first leg of my journey. Fate's fickle train finger once again jabbed me when I was faced with a young woman occupying my seat. She had obviously been squatting there for some time as spread out on my reserved portion of the table was a whole panoply of cosmetic products which she was applying to her face. She seemed surprised and actually offended when I politely informed her that she was sitting in my seat. With bad grace and sighs of exasperation she began to pack up her "slap". It was at this point that I began to feel first guilty and then annoyed and resentful at feeling guilty. There were plenty of empty seats nearby so why did I not take one?  There is an old adage that possession is nine tenths of the law so that was perhaps why I felt in the wrong. My journey involved 2 changes of train and the second  stage did not leave me much time to catch my train. It was with a sigh of relief that I located the correct platform with some minutes to spare. Fates fickle finger had not finished with me though. As the train pulled in several hundred persons suddenly appeared out of the woodwork and crowded onto the platform. Now I am not, dear reader, a follower of equine sports so it had escaped my notice that I had picked the day of a major event in the horse racing calendar. Not only that but my train to Bristol also stopped at Cheltenham which was the location of the big race. Try to imagine a station platform packed with happy racegoers, all of them unencumbered with luggage and all determined  to board my train. I managed to scramble aboard my coach but at the wrong end for my seat. It was standing room only all down the carriage and it was with great difficulty that I made any progress. Several passengers remarked that there was no point in proceeding as there were not any seats left. By now I was getting rather fed up so I replied that there was indeed a seat for me and made a mental note that I damned well was going to get it. Arriving at the seat I saw to my annoyance that the reserved ticket had been removed by the person occupying MY SEAT! Brazenly he had left the reserved ticket on the table in front of him. He even showed no sign of guilt when I asked him to remove his carcase from my seat. What is it with the British public when they blatently occupy a train seat with a reserved sign on it? Are the greater portion of the travelling population illiterate? The race-going squatter even had the cheek to plant his backside on the seat next to me which also had a reserved ticket on it! During the journey to Cheltenham I contented myself with sideways disapproving glances.  At Cheltenham the train emptied and a few minutes later a tired and harrassed looking lady settled in the seat next to me. Like me she had boarded at Birmingham but was overwhelmed by the racing fraternity and only just managed to clamber on the train several coaches away. Since every carriage was packed with standing punters there was no chance of her making any progress.

Nailsea Hospitality

I arrived at Bristol, met my friend Dom and was promptly whisked off on another train to Nailsea where we were met by friend Richard and transported to his local hostelry, It was an interesting pub with an unusual pub sign of a gas heater, proclaiming the equally unusual name of "The Blue Flame" From thence we went to Richard's home where his sainted spouse Barbara made us welcome. Later, other friends who holiday on the same Greek island as myself joined us for a splendid dinner. The evening ended with friend Tricia kindly driving us back to Dom's house.

Admiring Brunel's architecture!

On Friday Dom and I set off to admire the architecture of Brunel's passenger shed at Bristol station. On arrival it transpired that the Bristol Beer Festival was in progress. In order to gain entrance we needed tickets. Fortunately Dom had thoughtfully purchased these in advance. Since the tickets included prepaid beer tokens it seemed churlish not to partake of some ales. We were joined by some of Dom's work colleagues and in order not to look antisocial I was compelled to purchase and consume more ale. Architectural admiration is full of such pitfalls...

The Shakespeare Tavern - "Is this a dagger I see before me?

 

No

 it's a pint of IPA"

Saturday dawned and with it a journey back to the city centre to meet up with my friend, the Blessed Liz who is currently working in Bristol.  Liz is still registered with my local doctor so I had agreed to collect a prescription for her. The drug delivery took place at the Shakespeare Tavern, blatently in full view of the busy street. After a convivial lunch it was time to catch my train to return home. I was relieved by the fact that it would not be full of racing punters this time but dismayed to find that someone had again taken my reserved seat! This was too much! What really annoyed me was the feeling that I was the person in the wrong! There seemed to be a visible police presence on every train home so I was grateful that I did not now possess a suitcase full of drugs. Had there been a sniffer dog my journey may have been rather stressful. Again, I had failed to realise that a Saturday afternoon journey in the football season could be rather crowded. The very last train to my home station was packed with voluble football supporters so it was with relief that I reached Chez Kojak, ready for a pot of tea and the lure of the sprung edge 4 drawer divan.