Go North Young(ish) Man, A Large Gin and a Descent From The Hills

I had intended to travel up to the North East on Tuesday but, as with many good intentions, it came to naught. The Battle of the Bed Bases had left me with more than a poorly cut finger. Climbing between various bits of packing materials and taking avoiding action from a mattress that was intent on toppling over onto me I had come down rather hard on my left foot. As the days progressed it had become progressively more painful so I declared Tuesday as a day of rest and cossetted the injured hoof with a hot wheat pack and a crepe bandage. Wednesday dawned feeling much improved and so I set off on my journey north. The drive up the M6 was not without incidents. Despite the advertiser's promises my windscreen washers had frozen solid and all attempts to thaw them out were a miserable failure. I had to stop off at various service stations to spray the windscreen with de-icer so that I could see through the crap that was thrown up by other traffic and which promptly dried on impact. I had intended to play safe and go up to Carlisle and thence take the A69 trunk road. I made a forced exit at Penrith to clear the windscreen and found myself in a layby heading towards the Alston road. I took a chance and decided to try the route up and over the moors. To my relief apart from some freezing fog at the summit the road was passable with care and I duly arrived at my friends moorland village late but safe and just as a dusting of snow began to fall. I was greeted with a large gin & tonic which was much appreciated. After pleasantries we decided to adjourn to the pub before dinner and I spent the next few hours basking in the glow of a roaring fire and also basking in the glow of several pints of Black Sheep Bitter and sampling a new cask conditioned Pilsner which was surpringly tasty. Dinner and a few more gins made an agreeable end to the evening.

Next morning I set off to descend from the hills. A sneaky overnight fall of snow left the car covered in 4 inches of the stuff so some time was spent clearing that which had the bonus of also cleaning the windscreen. The snow was still falling as I set off on the way down, my friend accompanying me as we made our way very gingerly to the next village where I called at other friends there before continuing a very slow descent from the hills.

Christmas and Boxing days were spent with the family and involved the usual troughing to excess on turkey and Christmas pudding and then dozing in an armchair complete with party hat at a rakish angle. One young relative fancying her chances bragged that she had cunningly used he mobile phone in previous years to take photos of a slumbering Uncle Norm and would not hesitate to publish them if I persisted in trying to force her to eat sprouts. She really ought to know better than attempt blackmail on a thoroughly shameless old pro. I replied that she should do her worst but had better remember that I had pictures of her as a baby wearing much less than a party hat. Game set & match to the oldie!

A Comfy Bed, 8 Inches and an Indian

On Friday evening my friend Liz arrived bringing with her 2 inches of snow which had appeared sometime between me drawing the curtains at 4pmish and her arrival an hour or so later.  I was still nursing my wounds from the battle of the bed bases so Liz kindly offered to go out for fish and chips. I played the perfect host by making tea while she was braving the arctic conditions. I was surprised when I peeked out of the window a little later and found that 8 inches of snow had sneakily arrived while we had our nosebags on. We wisely decided to ignore the weather until the next morning and come bedtime I luxuriated in a comfy bed that was now a respectable height from the floor

Saturday morning dawned and we were relieved to see that no further snow had fallen. Our friend Margs arrived laden with Christmas presents (minutes after I had hurriedly wrapped hers). After the customary exchange she very kindly offered to take us shopping, her car being parked on the main road while ours were still covered with snow. One of the disadvantages of residing in a quiet "court" is that snow clearing is entirely up to the inhabitants. Margs brought me back with the shopping while Liz went off to have her Christmas hairdo. I decided to be the good snow-shoveling Samaritan and clear the path and cars of snow. My trusty neighbour, Andy, often cuts my patch of lawn when he is doing his so I adopt a quid pro quo attitude which in this instance meant clearing his pathway from the house and uncovering his car from a substantial layer of snow. This was no easy task as I have a very small shovel...

That evening my friend Ian arrived and we were all to join a young friend celebrating her 50th birthday. Unsurprisingly taxis were nowhere to be had - the few that were operating were solidly booked up. Liz, bless her, offered to drive us to the Indian restaurant where we were meeting the birthday girl. It should be mentioned that by this time I was beginning to stiffen up from the unaccustomed exertion of snow shoveling. Having an already dodgy neck and shoulder only added to the discomfort. An excellent Chicken Jalfrezi and a few Indian beers acted as a temporary anaesthetic bolstered by the 2 mandatory bottles of red wine that we opened when we got home. This morning dawned and it immediately became evident that the liquid anaesthetic had worn off. I no longer needed to clamber up from the futon the floor but it was clear that any movement in any direction was going to be painful. The morning passed quietly and the usual morning after bacon butties were served. Liz took advantage of a clear sky and headed back home to Sheffield and Ian left later, both of us giving up after a frustrating battle with Open Office databases. I'm retiring for a long soak in a very hot Radox bath.

The Divan Has Landed!, A Grumpy Reveille and a Widow Twankee moment

This is the fourth 7am reveille this week, far too much for a retired gentleman. I disregard the  regular 4am duty wakings as this seems to be normal for gentlemen of a certain age. A hurried, chilly shower as the heating had just come on entitled me to a good grump so I reveled in one. The reason for getting up yet again in the middle of the night was that today is Divan Day and the advised arrival time of the new and I hope unsullied divan bases was anywhere between 07.30hrs and 13.30hrs. Now I know the factory is situated somewhere in the midlands and I doubt that even the most eager of DDPs (divan delivery persons) would set off in the wee small hours in order to arrive at Chez Kojak at 07.30hrs. Tempting as it was, I reluctantly thought it foolish to risk a desperately longed for lie in and so once again I had to clamber out of the futon the floor. Naturally there was no early delivery but I did keep myself busy. The next few days threaten to be hectic as I plan to leave for God's own county of Durham to spend Christmas and New Year in northern climes. There was, therefore  laundry and ironing to be done before that and I also have friends arriving and staying tonight and tomorrow to help an  ex-work colleague youngster celebrate her 50th birthday. Much of the morning was spent having a Widow Twankee moment, washing, ironing, making beds. I could have done with a Wishee Washee to assist me but they all seem to be busy doing pantomime.

The divan has landed! At 12.50hrs precisely. Having practised unpacking etc. on 3 previous bases I thought this one would be a piece of cake. The first attack drew blood... MINE! Having worked in a office for all my working life I thought I had mastered the art of avoiding paper cuts. What I had not expected, nay, thought impossible, was a corrugated cardboard cut. Ah well, one lives, gets cut and learns. I did manage to avoid splashing my rare B rhesus negative corpuscles on the "luxury damask" covering as I hurriedly retired hurt to the kitchen and the First Aid box. It's amazing how much blood is contained in a finger. I have read of ancient gods demanding a blood sacrifice but I've never heard of a divan base doing a Dracula. After a session with the cold water tap and with the aid of a sticking plaster I returned to the fray, cautiously circling the bases. A different manufacturer but one which also had in it's employ a staple gun fanatic. Armed with an array of tools to cut, unstaple and screw I finally managed to assemble them. They are linked together by a cunning arrangement of clips which requires you to lift one side of one base and lift the opposite side of the other base. Easy if you have one of Santa's little helpers to assist but there wasn't an elf in sight. A brief struggle ensued with the odd castor or three dropping out at a critical moment causing the air to turn as blue as the bedroom carpet. Success at last! I just have an unwieldy mattress to position before I can look forward to a sprung based 4 drawer continental slumber at a decent height from the floor.

The first visitor is arriving shortly. There's nothing prepared but I rather fancy fish and chips tonight!... and snow has just arrived with the visitor.

A Grumpy Start, Secrets of a Doctor, An Escape to the Country and a Close Shave.

Today was the third grumpy morning in a row. Readers will know by now of my antipathy to Mondays. They are the day of the Uberbinfuhrerherren and are rightly reviled by me not only for the ongoing war of attrition but also for the ungodly hour of 7am at which I have to arise to conduct it. On Tuesday I also sprang... well... clambered up from the futon the floor at the same unearthly hour as I had an early appointment with the physiotherapist at my doctor's surgery. I was downstairs and halfway through a hurried breakfast before I glanced upwards at the calendar and realised that the appointment was in fact for Wednesday. The ensuing grumpiness was further fueled by watching an episode of "Grumpy Old Men" on the television the previous evening which had placed me in the right frame of mind. And so today I had to go through the 7am procedure yet again. As the heating does not switch on until 7am the chill in the house was matched by my frosty demeanour.

Todays physio session stemmed from a visit to my doctor a few weeks ago during which I mentioned that I'd been suffering from pain in my hands for some time. This began earlier this year when I was helping my pal Ian lay the finishing paving flags on the patio. I put it down to the novelty of manual labour but there has not been much improvement since then. The physiotherapist is also the doctor's wife. Now he is a very good doctor but shoots from the hip when talking. We were both laughing at his comments that at my age I shouldn't expect things to heal up overnight. Jane Doe (I shall  not use her name to preserve anonimity and marital harmony) remarked that he, who was once partial to rock climbing and expeditions up the Amazon had now become partial to stiffening up in his joints. I immediately felt much better. The words "Physician heal thyself" sprang to mind but in the interests of my own well-being I shall refrain from murmuring them within earshot of him.

From the warmth of the physio table I travelled into the country to a nearby farm to stock up with milk and eggs. For many years I have supported a succession of local milkmen until erratic deliveries and casual service made me sadly withdraw my custom. Reluctant to give my money to the local supermarket I now make a journey once or twice a week to a nearby farm where the milk is actually cheaper and fresher than that supplied by Mr. Morrison & Co. I normally time my visit to just after milking has finished when I know the farmer and his help are in the dairy. If they are still up to their wellies in another bovine by-product I am told just to "help yourself you know where everything is"  The same advice also applies if there is no-one within earshot or in the farmhouse. I always endeavour to have the correct money upon me in case the dairy is unmanned so I frequently have to make a quick raid on my home piggy bank or the car park fund in the car ashtray. On the way home, spotting a vacant space by the relatively empty barbers shop I called in for my Christmas haircut. I do have a haircut at other times of the year but the necessity for one is not that frequent as those familiar with me will know. I actually get charged less than the special pensioner's rate, presumably as it takes only a fraction of the time. As a result of the short back and sides coupled with an icy cold morning I arrived home with a demeanour as chilly as the one I got up with.

A Small Mortgage, A Predicted Dalai Lama and Festive Tribulations

Today I spent the equivalent of a small mortgage on postage for Christmas parcels and cards. Yes, I know it is self-inflicted and I possess the ability to reduce the cost but I have covered the whys and wherefores in the previous blog and I have no intention to change this unless bankruptcy and ensuing poverty dictate otherwise. I still have palpitations at the Post Office when the counter assistant announces the final total even though I try to steel myself for the forthcoming shock by gripping the counter, knuckles tensed and white.  There is one bright note amongst this Yuletide trauma. A guilty one but nonetheless one from which I derive some sneaky pleasure. This is the one time of the year when I exact revenge on every person who ever came before me in a Post Office queue and who dithered and took ages to be served. I am ashamed but secretly revel in the sighs of others behind me as I post several parcels to various parts of the globe, a myriad cards to various countries each requiring weighing and different postage costs and then deliver a final crushing blow by asking for a few hundred stamps. It's almost worth the not inconsiderable cost.

One would think that with cards written and parcels posted my spirits would be lightened. Sadly not so. There is the Christmas tree to assemble - yes, it's an artificial one, lifelike but artificial. The ensuing adornment with tasteful baubles and lights not to mention the various bits of  candlestick dressing etc. This must be presaged with a serious bit of hoovering and dusting. I often wonder why I bother to do it because I am never here over the Festive Season so I only enjoy the end result for a week at the most. My first task on returning home in early January is to set to and take the whole lot down again. My trusted neighbour who sweeps junk mail away from my door while I am absent sees more of the finished result than I do.

And so to the inevitable and predicted Dalai Lama.  In my last blog I mentioned my reluctance to weed my address database. True to form, a card arrived today from someone I hadn't heard from for the last few years and who had been "weeded" only a few days ago...

As if all this were not enough, on Friday, somewhere between 07.30hrs and 13.00hrs the latest instalment in the sprung divan base saga arrives. I hope to God this one comes unscathed...

Christmas Perils, Dalai Lamas and Bedroom Activity

One of the perils at this time of year is the annual rite of sending Christmas cards and wrapping presents.  Although I find the whole process onerous and time consuming I do enjoy the finished product. It may seem silly to send a card to someone you haven't seen for years and haven't contacted since the last Christmas card but I do think it's important to keep in touch with people even if it only happens once a year. There was an occasion this year  when contact was resumed after almost 30 years of card sending. Last May I met an old friend on the Greek island of Symi who I'd last seen there in the mid 1980s. A major peril at card writing time is the fact that you might be blissfully unaware of significant changes that have happened during the year. Regular readers will know that I am of a certain age. It follows that many of my friends are of a similar age or even older. Sadly, one or two have departed this mortal soil and the odds of this happening increase each year that passes. Today I received a card informing me that someone's husband had died earlier this year. Mercifully although I had written their card, fate had intervened and it had not yet been posted. Another peril looms as we approach the last day of posting. From time to time I conduct a little weeding exercise in my address database. This is a task I do rather unwillingly as I loath deleting names. It's a reluctant admission that I have finally lost an albeit tenuous contact with someone. I only take this course after a couple of years but it's a sure bet that the day after the last posting date a card will arrive from someone who has been "weeded" The horns of the Dalai Lama rear up once again. Do I send a card that has obviously been hastily posted after receipt of theirs?; do I lie and send a letter claiming the computer had crashed/been stolen/been eaten by the dog I don't have?; do I bite the Christmas bullet and do nothing thus ensuring that contact will be lost? An even sadder and thankfully rare occurence is having my card returned marked "not at this address" Was this an oversight or was the friendship so casual to them that I wasn't considered worthy of a change of address card?

More perils lurk in the bedroom. This is Day 7 of the futon the floor. This morning as I sleepily reached over to switch off the alarm I hit my head on the side of the ottoman which at present rears over the side of the mattress/futon. Luckily the ottoman has a padded covering which is a lot kinder to the face than the pine bedding chest I have been considering as a replacement. I am certain that the A&E department of the local hospital has had many strange causes of injury but I wonder whether switching off the alarm clock figures among them.

On a brighter note I received word from the manufacturers that the new bed base will be delivered next Friday.  Santa has hopefully been kind to Kojak and I shall tempt fate by announcing that the days of the futon are numbered. A welcome bit of activity in the bedroom department.

A Bedless Nowell and Putting my Futon It

Much of this morning was spent struggling to pack a parcel to send abroad. Every year I make vows to only buy regular shaped Christmas presents which are not large or heavy and every year they come to nothing. This year is no exception. I begin by feeling very smug that I have avoided the last minute buying panic by picking up suitable stuff throughout the year. The danger in this is of course that thoughts of wrapping and in some cases packing and posting are far away in the future and I am too full of self-congratulatory success to consider practicality over suitability. Having made great inroads into clearing out the cupboard under the stairs my tardiness in attacking the "just in case" stuff in the spare room has been justified. Several "just in case" sturdy cardboard boxes have come into their own albeit with varying degrees of customisation.

And so to matters nocturnal. This will be the fourth night on the mattress that has adopted the position of a futon. Although age and condition enforce a gentle approach to the lower levels of my bedroom I have not yet overcome the automatic response of getting out of bed in the morning. Swinging my legs out to put my futon on the floor I come perilously close to being chinned by my own knees. Not to mention that slamming my feet on an axminster that is suddenly only a few inches away is getting rather painful. As if this were not distressing in itself  a phone call to the suppliers of the new bed indicates that it may not be delivered until the New Year. They tell me that the manufacturers will announce a likely date next Monday. The thought that for some weeks all may be quiet on the bedroom front of Chez Kojak leaves my spirits lower than the futon on the floor. 

The Wee Small Hours and a Chatty Dental Person

Sunday was mostly spent indoors keeping warm. I was running perilously short of milk but the thought of venturing out into the freezing fog gave me a Captain Oates complex and with a stoical rationing of tea I managed to eke the milk out until this morning. This was no mean feat as I awoke at 3.30am, 4.30am and finally gave up trying at 6am. This not only made me grumpy and tired but also gave me plenty of time to set up my early Monday morning ambush of the bin men.

Even the Uberbinfuhrerherren failed to lighten my mood. It was Recycling Day - a bit like Groundhog Day but with bins instead of groundhogs. They behaved perfectly at all 3 collections leaving my carefully pent up ire well pented up. I couldn't even drown my sorrows with a pot or two of tea as the middle of the night start to the day had depleted the milk to a trickle.  I kept looking for the sunrise but gave up at 10am because it never really happened.

At lunchtime I had an appointment with the dental technician ... oh joy!  I've never liked going to the dentists even for an inspection. At the ripe old age of... well ... having reached a certain age I am fortunate in retaining all my tusks with little trouble apart from the odd filling. This dislike was not assuaged by my first encounter with a vengeful harpy masquerading as a dental technician who left my gums as shredded as that well known breakfast cereal that real men can eat 3 of. This morning's encounter, dear reader, was not just of the clean & polish variety. I also had a bit of infilling at the top of a fang which required an injection. All quite painless really but with the usual side effect. Why is it that all dental persons take a vicarious delight in filling your mouth with a range of instruments including a miniature vacuum hose, numbing one side of  your face so you dribble and slur like a demented loon and then proceed to ask you a succession of questions?

A Monday Morning Feeling on Sunday and Bedless in Wesham

Last night was spent dismantling the tiresome bed bases ready for a potential early collection & return today. It was rather like an IKEA flatpack jobby in reverse but the packs certainly weren't flat. My comments in earlier blogs about being trapped on my landing looked disturbingly close to reality with no less than 3 bed bases jostling for position. I tried unsuccessfully to curtail the automatic and sadly futile body response of attempting a six pack figure every time I clambered past them. Unfortunately it just looked as if I'd consumed a six pack or two...

I passed a strange night sleeping on a mattress inches away from the floor. Reality kicked when the alarm went off at 7am. Reaching over to switch it off I realised I now had to reach UP. I seldom leap out of bed these days but this morning I had to roll over and adopt a hands and knees position. Now the heating doesn't come on until 7am so Kojak's boudoir was a tad chilly which matched my frosty mood perfectly. The collection slot opened at 8am and that hour came and went.

  

Even a rather pretty sunrise didn't expel the sleep from my eyes. We have been very lucky in this neck of the woods compared with the rest of the country because we have had only a very small dusting of snow which has now vanished. We did get some rain which promptly froze on contact with the ground leaving roads and paths in a treacherous condition. I knew that the delivery originated in the Midlands but had no idea of the route taken or the areas covered so there was always a nagging doubt in my mind that meteorological conditions might cause the run to be aborted and leave me with a large blockage in the landing area. No amount of Fybogel would shift that..  The delivery lorry finally arrived at 1pm but even that did not pass without incident.

 According to the work sheet there was only one base unit to be returned. I quickly amended that to 3 in large writing. Fortunately the very affable men were amenable to removing all of them. In addition to the usual Monday morning Uberbinfuhrer and fracas I now have to contemplate yet another phone call to the makers of the bed. The assurances of a complete return and refund do not seem quite so concrete now. I have the haunting feeling that I may be on slippy ground which perfectly matches the conditions in the cold outdoors. At least I can sidle along the landing without holding my stomach in...

One Dalai Lama Down but the Prospect of Camping Out with Another

Yesterday I grasped the proverbial bull or bed base as it is better known by the horns. Aghast at the prospect of Chez Kojak turning into Divan Villa I had delayed ordering yet another bed base until I was sure that the replacement would not turn up on the doorstep of my abode while the landing was packed to the loft hatch with the remains of the original disgraced one. After much digressing I bit the bullet, or rather the mattress and plucked up enough online courage to order another base. This is not without perils though, the first one being the prospect of sleeping on the floor albiet with a layer of "Miracoil" springs and padding to keep my carcase off the Axminster. Immediately I had pressed the point-of-no return-key my thoughts began to drift to the delivery date (to be advised), the inclement weather and the approaching Festive Season.

 Nothing is ever straightforward. I've heard of heart & lung transplants performed with less bother. Perhaps Santa will smile favourably and expedite an early delivery otherwise the next few weeks will look as grey and depressing as this morning's photo.

One would think that the imminent removal of the discredited divan bases would have lightened matters somewhat. No, dear readers. A very consumer unfriendly 8am to 8pm collection slot gives me the dubious choice of either getting up in the middle of the night to dismantle the 3 and one broken drawer base or settling for a Fred Dibnah demolition job tonight. Neither prospect has any more appeal than today's weather.

Oompa Loompas and The Horns of the Dalai Lama

Today was grey wheelie bin day. A relatively painless one albeit not without discomforts. There is the discomfort of hauling my carcase out of a warm bed, supported of course by temporary bed bases, at 07.00 hrs on a cold,drear and dark morning when the central heating has only just kicked in. Another discomfort is having to leave a still cool house before 07.30hrs and step into a freezing outdoors to carefully position the bin as directed by the council Uberbinfuhrer. The final discomfort is repeating my cold slipper shuffle to retrieve the bin when and at whatever time the evil bin Oompa Loompas deign to arrive, wheel and  return it. A fellow blogger (you know who you are) has kindly included a photo of West Country bin Ooompa Loompas. A random thought causes me to digress slightly. Regular readers will know that I enjoy a digress every so often. We have many organisations and internet websites offering consumers the opportunity to compare various providers ranging from gas and electricity to house and car insurance. It seems that you can compare or read reviews on almost anything these days. Is there something that caters for wheelie bin services? In line with hospital and schools are councils required to provide wheelie bin league tables? If so, I must have personally bottomed out Fylde Borough Council's chances. If the Laplanders, or Sami, to give them their correct title, have to transport their bins to the nearest collection point would they be O Sami bin laden?

Well, a collection date has arrived for the bed bases. I say bases because I have three at present. One occupying the landing, ready to wedge and trap those unwary visitors of an ample figure and two occupying the area beneath my mattress, providing support for a resident, sadly on the verge of an unwanted, but inevitable ample figure. I say inevitable because the combination of a bread machine, a Kenwood Chef and a healthy appetite make it so.

The date for collection is next Sunday - an unusual day for the transport of returning bed bases. And so to the several horns of the Dalai Lama or dilemmas in everyday speak. Will my current snow-free abode still be accessible? Do I pre-empt the promise of a refund and bravely order a new base? Do I wait until the refund dust has settled and imitate a squat by camping out on a mattress on the floor. I have done such sleeping larks in the past but not for some years. More dilemmas - how long will I be baseless?; having got down to floor level in a supine position will I be able to get up again? (important stuff for those of a certain age!); if I order a new base will it, horror of horrors, arrive before the old ones are collected and if it did, where the hell would I put them? My lounge is not miniscule but I know it and I could not cope with a 3 piece suite and 3 bed bases. Which replacement should I purchase? What is the difference between torsion sprung, pocket sprung and Miracoil? This last decision is of vital importance as whatever sprung I select has to last me a considerable number of years - I'm not going through all this again!

Friends, Beer, and another Wet Bed

On Thursday I picked up Dom, a Symi pal, at Preston station and hightailed it up the M6 to Keswick where we were meeting other Symi friends for a Northern Reunion. Dom hadn't been as far north as Lancashire before so he kept an anxious eye out for the dragons which were apparently mentioned on his maps. No fearsome beasts were spotted, only rain and some fearsome drivers. The weather being miserable with limited visibility there wasn't much point in taking the scenic route through Kendal and Windermere but we did call in at the Rheged Centre near Penrith for some refreshment and, as I am a gentleman of a certain age, a "comfort" stop. We arrived at Keswick shortly after, checked into the hotel  and then repaired to the bar to meet the other arrivals. After the usual greetings melee and a few libations of ale we decamped to the hotel across the road as the cask ale had run out.

Thursday evening continued with a sumptuous repast of fish & chips. There was something familiar about the restaurant owner's wife - she was a Greek Cypriot. Now the chances of the Greeks having penetrated as far as the English lakes are pretty slim and the chances of a Symi Reunion mob encountering them are even slimmer. Slimming, however, had nothing to do with the burgeoning plates of fish & chips. The evening continued with more excellent ale. My evening, however, was cut short by an attack of Monteczuma's Revenge which resulted in my spending more time in the bathroom than I would normally wish. Feeling very tired and  washed out I retired to bed only to wake up a few hours later to find the bed sheets soaked. No, dear reader it was not what you think. I was running a temperature and it seemed had sweated out all the ale consumed previously. This set the scene for the rest of the get-together. Kojak had an upset tummy and wet the bed at night... with perspiration only!

Friday dawned cold but bright and sunny and our intrepid crew set off on a cruise around Derwentwater. There was not a breath of wind and the lake was as smooth as a mirror. Given good weather I think there are very few places quite as beautiful.

An added bonus to the reunion was that Keswick was hosting a food festival. The main street was lined with stalls and our nostrils were assailed with tempting aromas. My gippy tummy did not prevent me from sampling local cheeses, pasties, cakes etc. One advantage of the icy cold weather was that my car boot substituted as a very effective fridge for my purchases. Friday night was also the night that the Christmas lights were switched on. Our hotel was perfectly placed to watch the proceedings in comfort. It was a stroke of pure luck that we selected that particular date when it was all happening.

Saturday dawned fine and sunny after yet another night of hot & cold shivers and soggy sheets . By now, Kojak was beginning to feel under the weather. I gave up breakfast after a bowl of cereal, the plate of scrambled eggs the waitress was persistent in serving me was left largely untouched. I got through the goodbyes and made a final circuit of the shops and stalls with Dom before setting off on the return journey.

The skies were beginning to cloud over as we left but it was sufficiently clear for us to return via the scenic route. Dom had only seen one lake so far so he was able to notch up Grasmere, Thirlmere and Windermere, albeit from the car. The roads were surprisingly clear as we were headed in the opposite direction to most. A brief but necessary "comfort" stop at Kendal brought us back into heavy traffic for the first time but we managed to extract ourselves without incident. Kendal had been the first idea for a reunion but after seeing how busy it was I was thankful we had chosen Keswick. An uneventful journey brought us down to Preston in good time for Dom's train, which was just as well because parking near the station proved impossible. Preston was also switching on it's Christmas lights and the town was heaving. We eventually managed to park well away from the station and settled for a leisurely coffee before retrieving Dom's bag from the car and walking to the train.

Driving home I felt more and more unwell. My house-sitter, Liz had not become wedged between the bed base on the landing as I feared and soothed my fevered brow with a very welcome cup of tea. I wasn't up to accompanying Liz to the pantomime staged by friends and retired to bed at 6.30pm leaving my bag unpacked. Sunday passed very quietly, Liz left at lunchtime and I managed to eat half a boiled egg. Monday morning began with another surveillance of the evil bin men, it being recycling day involving three different collections. I was impressed by the smooth transition from a throwing motion to a carefully replaced box once my presence had been clocked. This was obviously a practised movement.... I am clearly not alone in this war of attrition. On a brighter note, the firm I purchased the bed from once again agreed a refund . I in turn, now await a collection date before beginning the hunt for a bed once again.

Bad Beds and Good Service

A very quick blog before I depart for the Lake District. The weather is as I remember the Lakes - raining!

My euphoria at finally getting the replacement base unit for the bed came to an abrupt end when I began to assemble the bits. Pulling one of the drawers out to fix the handle on I was left holding half a drawer in my hand. Somewhere along the route it had sustained a blow which had effectively caused it to come apart. Deep gloom ensued. By this time the diminutive delivery man had long gone and office hours had similarly come to an end. On reflection this had been a whole catalogue of disaster from start to finish. I resolved to try and get a refund and start the whole hunt off again.

This morning I again spoke to the manufacturer's Customer Services department. They apologised profusely but said they could not deal with a refund as the bed had been purchased from another company. Confused? - I was. Dredging up the email which I had, as always, kept "just in case" I discovered the vendor's name. The website gave no phone number, only an email contact point. Reading the returns policy on the website it also seemed that they would be loath to refund my cash, only provide yet another replacement. I sank deeper into gloom, especially as I was due to depart for the Lake district in a few hours. Nonetheless I emailed the firm and then dashed out to the Post Office, thinking that they were bound to phone while I was out. No surprise then that I heard the answerphone as I opened my front door.  There was a panicky scrabble for the phone as I managed to pick up the call. A very sympathetic man  apologised for the week-long trauma and immediately offered a full refund. All I need to do is phone on Monday morning to arrange collection. Bless you, Ian from the Good Bed Company, you've made an old man very happy... in the nicest possible way of course. Kojak is off to the Lakes with a happy heart!

Climax, Anti-climax and a Very Little Man

Tuesday's blog left me eagerly awaiting the arrival of the replacement base for my bed. Although the timespan for delivery ended at 8pm, by the 6 o'clock news my already waning excitement had almost drained away. By 9pm anger had replaced any remaining scrap of optimism. It was of course far too late to vent my ire on Customer Services again so I set to with a heavy and uncharitable heart to reassemble the bed so at least I had something to sleep on.

I had a doctor's appointment this morning, too early to telephone the firm. Normally my doctor is fairly timeous with his appointments but today, as usual, the barrel of fate served up yet another rotten apple. Appointments were running extremely late - 30 minutes in my case. One of the nurse practioners was sitting in and conducting examinations under the doctor's supervision. Now this was highly enlightening as I got a detailed explanation of all my various ailments but time was ticking by and my thoughts were of an empty house and a delivery van. My anxiety was not soothed by the mention of my age in almost every sentence. I came out of the surgery wondering whether I should have had a zimmer frame delivered along with the bed.

Back home, I noted with relief that 50% of a sprung base had not been dumped on my doorstep in the rain. Switching quickly into irate customer mode I telephoned the firm. A sweet but confused customer services lady first announced that the firm did not sell to members of the public. Now I know that I had not posed as a retail outlet or, given my increasing waistline, a wholesale one because I'd printed off the online order form and there was no mention of "Kojak Ltd." or "Kojak & Sons". I don't have a son, well, not to my knowledge...The lady did phone back later to say the errant bed would arrive that afternoon. And so it did and with it the answer to the mystery of the separate bed and mattress deliveries.  Bases are delivered by two men. Mattresses are delivered by one very small one. Staggering under the weight of half a bed base was a diminutive man. I felt a pang of guilt as it was my insistence for an early replacement that had brought this about. The guilty pang did not prevent me pointing him in the direction of the stairs, however. The bed, divested of a double polythene wrapping is almost ready for assembly. Only one task remains. The Staple Gun Kid  has once again been running amok...

You may rest assured, dear readers, that despite the doctor's concentration on my age I feel no necessity for a zimmer frame in the foreseeable future. I do, however, possess my late father's walking stick should the need arise.

Half a Bed and a Double Glazer

I am resigned to having to get up in the middle of the night on a Monday to lurk for the bin men. Unfortunately I must have briefly lurked in the wrong place because my bin was neatly returned to the pavement but not within my boundaries. Perhaps they thought my neighbour would want my bin. It is, after all in pristine condition being regularly deep cleaned. I do give to charitable institutions but dustbin charity firmly begins and stays at home! I am not resigned to repeating an early start on a Tuesday but since the replacement base is arriving I have had to haul my protesting carcase out of a warm bed for the second day in a row.

As I type, the double glazing man is attending to the draught in my lobby. Since this involves opening and closing the front door the ground floor of the house is now rather draughty too. It is perilously close to the time when the first bed delivery was made and I fear that my prediction of a pitched battle between the double glazer and the bed men may prove to be fact.

Meanwhile the two bed bases have been undone and separated in the optimistic hope that a new and unsullied half arrives today. Note the Symi carpet on the wall - supported by the ubiquitous IKEA curtain pole.
The other, nasty stained base now resides on the landing where it will languish until the bed base delivery service deigns to come and collect it.

I leave for the Lake district on Thursday so it will not be too much of an encumbrance to me. Unfortunately a friend is arriving on Thursday night to stay for a few days so she will have to squeeze past it to get to her bed. I hope that my return on Saturday will not find her wedged and starving on the landing. Perhaps I should leave a strategically placed survival  pack there just in case.

The double glazer has completed his work on my and my neighbour's house as he had a draught up his lobby too. We haggled the price of the double glazing down by dangling a tempting joint installation in front of several firms. I rather enjoyed the sight of various salesmen desperately vying for our favours in the knowledge that half a dozen or so other firms also had their snouts in our single glazed troughs. A quick check of the offending draughty areas seems to indicate an improvement although we do not have the howling gales of a few days ago. Time will tell and I am hopeful of an ambient temperature in the lobby area.

Ending on a happy note it has just been announced that our next King but one is to be married in the spring or summer of next year. The Royal succession is further assured and my lobby should be warmer. All I need is the arrival of an unsullied half of a bed and my cup should runneth over.

One and a Half beds, Gales and a Draught up My Lobby.

For some time I have been bothered by an intermittent draught up my lobby. This is not something the doctor can cure nor is it fatal, merely uncomfortable and a tad chilly.

Last year I had new UPVC double glazing installed which has  largely behaved very well except in the lobby area. Now I don't expect or want a tropical ambiance in my lobby but I had hoped that replacing the old and ill-fitting wooden door would at least take the chill off the place. I cannot understand why the manufacturers of a double glazed door would take such advertised care over draught proofing and yet incorporate a keyhole with a raised edge that not only allows a howling gale to blow through but which has a design that prevents any sort of cover being fitted to preclude the said draught.

Today I have been awaiting the promised gale force winds to hit the north-west of England. As befits an English gale it was late arriving and most of the day has just reflected the lull before the storm. At last it arrived and fortunately the wind direction enabled me to locate precisely the non-keyhole areas where the offending draughts are sneaking in. Now I have to hope that when the double-glazing man arrives next Tuesday the wind continues to perform in a similar manner. There's nothing worse than being on the end of that "look" when you feebly state "Well, it was there yesterday".

In addition to the wind rattling doors, windows and my lobby I received notification of the delivery date of half a bed to replace the offending wet half that was delivered 2 days ago. Quick work, you may think and I have to admit that I was impressed at first.  If there is a rotten apple in the barrel of lfe it has generally been my misfortune to retrieve it and on this occasion I retrieved a delivery date when I was to be away in the Lake District at a reunion of holiday friends. After much whining to Customer Services the very helpful lady managed to arrange a new delivery date before I left for more northern climes. Because they will have to use a different delivery service, one which normally only delivers mattresses, they will not be able to take away the original half of the base. This brings up an interesting point. Is there some sort of demarcation between delivering mattresses and bed bases? Are special, non-transferable skills required  for each? If you order a complete bed do you get the mattress one week and the bed base the next or vice-versa?

So Tuesday should be interesting. I have visions of the double glazing man defending the door with a draught detector while delivery men try to force an entry using half a bed as a battering ram. I have not yet thought where I am supposed to store the other half of the bed pending collection. I have some ideas but I suspect that they are both illegal and anatomically impossible...

Meanwhile, the wind is howling, the rain is lashing down and I shall take comfort in a rib-sticking stew and perhaps a steamed pudding. The only lashing inside Chez Kojak will be lashings of custard.

Wet Beds and Horrors

My bed was wet, not in the way you might think, dear reader! Granted I am a gentleman of a certain age but I have so far avoided the embarrassment of incontinence aids.

A couple of years ago my sister happened to mention that she was buying a new mattress for her bed. During the course of the conversation she mentioned that in addition to the fact that it had developed a "sag" it was high time to change it as she'd had it for well over 10 years. I successfully concealed a guilty look as I was still happily and comfortably slumbering on the same bed that I bought in 1977. Before you throw up your hands in horror I should quickly add that the mattress had been regularly hoovered and turned as all good mattresses should be. It had also been cosily wrapped in a snug protective covering.

Nevertheless a tiny nagging doubt had insinuated itself into my mind. Did the innocuous mattress conceal a seething mass of horrors? Was it alive with those evil-looking microscopic creatures that we are told live on the flakes of epidermic material that we constantly shed?  Despite looking a little worn at the edges, the mattress was still in good shape, still firm, no sign of sagging. "But", said the insidious little voice, "did that 'firmness'  consist of quality interior springing or was it just years of human detritus being munched by mattress mites?"  Well, the doubt lingered and so a few months later I purchased a new posh mattress. As it had been a decade or two since buying my last one I went into moderate to severe shock at the cost. Examining the  flimsy bases within my price range I decided to retain the existing and much better quality sprung base.

And so to today and the heading of this blog. Seeking more storage space I purchased a new double bed base with drawers. I blame Marks & Spencer entirely for this because they forced upon us an extremely tempting sale of towels and as everyone knows, one can never have too many towels. The new base was to be delivered the following Tuesday lunchtime so the question of the disposal of the old and perfectly good base had to be addressed. Once again the excellent Freecycle website came to the rescue. It's not often that you see a want-ad for a double bed base. A complete bed yes, but a base only? well, it must be a rarity. Nevertheless, there it was, precisely at the right time! It was arranged that the grateful recipient would call to pick up the old base on the evening of the new one being delivered. What could go wrong? Plenty.....

The first sign of things unraveling was a phone call from the Freecycle man on Monday. Because of work commitments he couldn't collect the old base on Tuesday evening as planned but asked if he could call the next day. This meant keeping the old base propped up in the lounge overnight but hey ho, not a great inconvenience. Tuesday arrived and I attacked the bedroom. A friend, who had promised to help with the heavy stuff, explained, with many apologies, that he'd had an urgent call out to work. I managed to shift the mattress and began to dismantle the old base. More horrors emerged when I viewed the area of carpet under the bed - the parts that other hoovers, including mine, couldn't reach. I set to and managed to remove the unspeakable evidence before I shocked the delivery men and embarrassed myself. The bed base duly arrived at the appointed time, the men helpfully carrying both parts upstairs. Full of optimistic expectation, my IKEA flatpack assembling skills honed to a knife-edge of readiness, I began to unpack the bits. I wonder how  we managed before the days of polythene wrapping? Assembly tools nowadays must include a pair of scissors in addition to a screwdriver or two. One this occasion I also had to make judicial use of a staple remover as some staple gun toting person had gone to town on the bag containing castors, drawer handles and associated bits. I noticed that the polythene wrapping was wet  but I was not unduly worried because it was raining during the delivery. Unpacking the second base I was concerned to see that the protective cardboard inside the large polythene bag encasing the base was soaked through. Further examination resulted in the discovery of substantial staining on one side of the base. It had to go back. So here I was with half a bed upstairs,the lounge dominated by a dismantled base downstairs and no prospect of a replacement base (bases were made to order) for 6 days. My cries of anguish to the makers were handled sympathetically and they promised to expedite the supply of a replacement but could only suggest that I use the offending part until a replacement arrived. Fortunately the top and connecting sides were dry.

Two glimmers of hope in an otherwise gloomy day:- the old base was collected by a very polite and grateful  dreadlocked young man and at least the horrors under the bed have been hoovered away... for the time being anyway...

Dawn Patrol, Passports and the Case of the Missing Poster.

Another bin day. It doesn't seem like a week since the last one. Actually it's more than a week as I missed last weeks, being en route from God's Own County of Durham. It was a blessing in disguise really as last week was a "green" bin day. On a green day I have several assorted bins, boxes and sacks or bags to place carefully and precisely outside Chez Kojak, as directed by the Uberbinfuhrer of my Borough Council. Failure to be careful and precise will result in some dire penalty just this side of hanging, drawing and quartering. It should be noted that this care and precision only applies to the placement of the receptacles. A free-for-all is apparently acceptable for the return of the empties. That's not to say that today's "grey" day was not without incident. Noting with rare approval that that the bin had been dumped loosely within my borders I spotted the diktat below pasted on the bin.

In a fiendish move to halve the extra hour in bed my bins must now be in situ 30 minutes earlier!  For every winter to come my Dawn Patrol must now become a nocturnal one. If it gets any earlier it will hardly be worth going to bed. Perhaps I should charge them for torch batteries. An eve of bin day placement is not reliably feasible since, living near the coast, a fresh Irish Sea breeze would probably dump the bin and box and certainly blow the bag or sack into the next borough. Municipal red tape being what it is they'd no doubt spend more in carefully returning the foreign and therefore unemptied articles with an admonition than use commonsense and just empty them.

The Uberbinfuhrer is nothing if not active. At the cost of several dozen trees every household has received a notice proudly proclaiming a new, free service to remove heavy and/or metal, electrical, clothing, shoes, textiles etc. etc. This amazing new service is available 24hrs a day, 7 days a week "ensuring your peace of mind, direct from your property" and you won't have to lift a finger"  All we had to do was phone the given number. As if this wasn't enough they would put on an introductory service on Saturday 30th October. Overwhelmed by this astonishing offer and having excavated the cupboard under the stairs in a previous blog I duly placed a neat but quite substantial pile outside my front door. Well, they didn't ensure my peace of mind and I did have to lift a finger - several times in fact. By dusk on Saturday the pile was still there and despite lifting my finger to phone they didn't come. They didn't come on Sunday or Monday. "We're running a bit late". I wonder if I should delay next months direct debit for my council tax as I frequently run a bit late too...

And so to passports. Noting that my nasty EU style passport is due to expire shortly before a holiday next June I have decided to apply well in advance in the hope that I get the new one in time. Having been a Government employee for most of my working life and even been responsible for rewriting various leaflets  in "plain english"  I never cease to be amazed at how difficult these forms are to fill in. Having been exhorted at the Post Office to keep within the confines of the boxes I found the said boxes for payment details coloured in such a pale yellow that they were quite hard to see. Most forms today consist of little boxes and invariably the boxes are very little. Now Malvina Reynolds sang a song called "Litttle Boxes" back in the 1960s. If she were alive today I'm sure she'd have ticky-tacky'd a verse on about very little boxes. At least I have, for the first time, succeeded in getting a passport photograph which looks vaguely human. The previous one, taken in the ubiquitous photo booth, looked as if I'd just sat in something nasty.

On my third visit to Symi I was greeted on the quayside by a line of friends wearing "Kojak" masks drawn by an artist friend. The artist himself brandished a full-sized matching poster. We all hastened along to the Meltemi Bar for the usual welcome drink or five. My pal Michaelis, who ran the bar, grabbed the poster and immediately nailed it up above the door. There it stayed for many years, gazing down at the clientele until the bar's sad demise.
The whereabouts and indeed the survival of the poster have been a mystery to me since then. Various people have hinted that it was "safe", others thought it no longer existed. The man himself told me only this year that as he'd given up the bar at short notice all the fittings etc. were taken out while he was away and he didn't know what happened to the poster. Imagine my surprise then when a photograph of it appeared in a Facebook group.

The poster is obviously not in it's original surroundings but the visible background isn't quite enough for me to immediately recognise it's location. Further investigation, dear reader, is necessary...

Rear View Mirrors Lingerie and Irn Bru

Last weekend I was summoned up to Newcastle to attend my niece-in-law's 50th birthday party. The invitation stressed that fancy dress was to be worn. What to wear? An excavation of the fancy dress drawer revealed that the hippy costume of genuine Brutus jeans and denim jacket had succumbed to that mysterious but common ailment of wardrobe shrinkage. Rousing the aged brain cells from their slumber I remembered that during a wardrobe clear-out in aid of the Lancashire Air Ambulance I had unearthed a "Jimmy Hat" - a scotch bonnet complete with a tasteful fringe of red hair. I also knew that my sister possessed a kilt which had belonged to one of my nephews. The fancy dress theme was settled!  I lacked a sporran but showing remarkable ingenuity, I performed a makeover on a nylon bumbag which I'd felt compelled to purchase but had never used - fate had clearly demonstrated stunning foresight!  The "sporran" lacked tassels but I gave it a true Scottish air by attaching 3 cans of Irn Bru. Braces, Pringle socks, suspenders and a wig from my amateur operatic days coordinated the ensemble perfectly. I was packing on the morning of the party when disaster struck. The "Jimmy Hat" was nowhere to be found! Doubtless it will turn up in an obvious place in the next few days. Inspiration came to the rescue magnificently. Now we are all told by the chattering classes that today's multicultural society embroiders life's rich tapestry. Kind and thoughtful friends, aware of my Telly Savalas appearance, had presented me with a rastafarian hat complete with dreadlocks. What better way to demonstrate the rich mix of cultures that makes up today's society! The costume was complete!

Confident in the sartorial elegance of my costume I set off, steeling myself for the usual trauma of the M6. I don't make a habit of regularly checking the Highway Code or every small bit of legislation passed by our Parliamentary representatives but I'm reasonably sure that rear view mirrors have not been abolished. Worryingly, an increasing proportion of the motoring public seem to have removed theirs. Life on the M6 north of Junction 32 is a constant battle to avoid being swiped into the fast lane without notice or even worse, being squeezed into no lane at all. Add the middle lane hoggers and those who seem to think that a slip road has priority and the drive up requires more weaving than the Bayeux Tapestry.

By some miracle I arrived  at my sisters unscathed. The search for the missing "Jimmy Hat" had delayed my departure so there wasn't much time left to assemble the, frankly stunning costume. I know it was stunning because my sainted sister was stunned when she saw it. She did recover her composure sufficiently to take the photograph above. Anyway, I digress. Followers of this blog will know by now that I digress quite frequently. There's nothing wrong with a little digress now and then and I propose to continue digressing. Life is often full of difficulties and I discovered another difficulty, namely that the kilt had also suffered wardrobe shrinkage. My blessed sister came to the rescue with 3 large safety pins to preserve my modesty.

The party went well and I received many favourable comments on my garb. I knew people liked it because they all smiled and some even lapsed into hysteria. It was a particularly cold night and despite not being a true Scot  I was conscious of a distinct draught that a prudent choice of Damart could have averted. My shivers were nothing compared to those of a brave soul who arrived wearing only his wife's underwear. I presume it was his wife's underwear else  someone's washing line is missing some very expensive lingerie. The next day was spent shivering and sneezing - I had most certainly got a chill in my sporran...

Bin Men and Tyre Pressures

What have bin men and tyre pressures got in common? Well, not much really except that they happened on the same day.

I thought I'd escaped that Monday morning feeling when I retired. Not so, because the bin men arrive each Monday morning and I am, for my sins (which must have been grievous), first on the rota for "the treatment".  I have to be up and alert each Monday at 8am sharp to monitor whatever nefarious deeds they commit in the name of recycling. I should really hestitate to comment on their iniquity for fear of even more drastic consequences but let's just say I am almost on first name terms with the Head Recycler and I have his mobile number.

Today was "grey" day, a relatively easy surveillance because it involves only one grey bin. Easy, you may think and yet they still manage to raise my blood pressure. As a self-confessed grumpy old man (I could have written the BBC series) it is not difficult to incite my ire and I really should resist biting the bullet, or rather the bin. Ze Instruktions are to have the bins ready for collection by 8am. Bin bags left on the pavement will NOT be collected. Why then, this morning, did they arrive at 07.50? Was it to catch out unwary late sleepers? And why, did the bin man reach inside my bin and lift out the black bin bag? leaving in the bin, odd bits of detritus that I'd picked up outside and which the wind always seems to dump on my patch of lawn. Now, I keep a very tidy bin and everything of my own is always placed in a bag before being binned but you'd think that he'd have given a cursory glance inside, given that he'd gone to the effort of actually lifting the lid. Today's bin men are delicate creatures, not the hearty bin men of old who effortlessly swung metal bins on their back, carried them some considerable distance and then hoisted them up with a fluid ease to empty the bin into the lorry. They even brought the bin back into the garden and placed it cheerfully back from whence it came. Todays timid creatures can only wheel, not lift, and then only wheel if the nasty bin isn't too heavy. Some seem to lack numeracy as my bin has been known to roam despite the house number on it being visible to overhead aircraft. So much for the sins of "grey" day. Next week is "green" day, the very thought of which causes a need for a strong cup of tea. I have a green bin, a green box and either a white sack or a blue bag, depending on what the bin man deigned to leave me the last time. There are 3 seperate collections which means a constant state of red alert from 8am until noon(ish). One would think that "green" operatives, given the nature of their jobs, would be more civic minded and eager to please - nope! I have to be ready to spring out of my door with alacrity if I sense that the bin, box or sack/bag is destined to land outside my territorial boundarys. I need several cups of tea on a green Monday...

And so to tyre pressures. At this point I have to admit that I have never actually checked the tyre pressures on my current car, leaving it to my trusty local garage man to do this on each service. I was prompted into guilt by my pal, the Blessed Ian (he who helped with the patio), who has the same make of car. He announced that after checking his tyres he was amazed at the difference it made in handling and fuel economy. Now I know all this, but things got lax when I bought this car because it doesn't have a cigarette lighter socket where I can plug in my home car tyre inflator thingy. It's a poor excuse but it's the only one I have, mea maxima culpa. Anyway, yet again, I digress. Bear in mind that it is some time since I approached a free air pump at a garage. Shock number one - air is no longer free. Fortunately, as car parking has not generally been free for quite a while, I have a small cache of coinage in the car ashtray (why do they sell a car with an ashtray but no cigarette lighter? Do they assume that if we can afford a packet of fags then we can probably afford a lighter?) Shock number 2 -  a perusal of the Skoda User Manual told me that the correct tyre pressures were to be found on the inside of the fuel filler cap. Now, as I'd combined the search for fuel and purchaseable air with a visit to the supermarket, it was dark by the time I emerged from Mr Tescos laden, of course by many more items than the 3 I had intended to buy. Fortuitously, on my car key ring, I have a small torch, courtesy of a 2009 quality Christmas cracker else the quest for air would have ended there and then. Even when illuminated, the figures meant nothing to me. Skoda have no truck with lbs per square inch, being a foreign make built outwith the sunny bounds of the late British Empire. I was faced with 220/2.20 which meant absolutely nothing to me and that was just for the front tyres. Full of trepidation, clutching my 20p piece I noted that you got precisely 5 minutes air for it - even the airlines don't charge that much. I hope the government doesn't get any ideas or pensioners won't live to get much of their taxes back.  Shock number 3 - it's all automatic. Gone are the days where you pressed a little lever and watched the dial. Now you just set the pressure, plug in the hose and a little beeper beeps as it automatically cuts off at the correct level. At least at the petrol pumps you still have to press something to get the desired amount of fuel. The only thing that can go wrong is picking up the wrong fuel hose. But that's another story......

More Clearing Out, some Nice Music and a Brat from Hell.

This Freecycle lark works a treat. Tomorrow the small vacuum cleaner, late of the cupboard under the stairs, departs to a new carpet where I hope it will be very happy. When I find the troll who threw it's empty pizza box over my back fence, it will depart to somewhere much less happy.

An otherwise splendid evening at the Bridgewater Hall, Manchester where we were treated to a lovely early piece by Delius which softened us up nicely for stirring stuff in the form of Elgar's Violin Concerto followed by a thumping rendition of Vaughan-Williams London Symphony. All played admirably by the Halle Orchestra. I should have guessed at the volume even before the conductor announced that it would be a "loud" concert - it's not often that you see 8 double bass lined up behind a formidable brass & woodwind section and no less than 12 cellos. The music was almost as loud as the screaming brat who accompanied me on a crowded train all the way to Manchester. Why the demonette's mother didn't fold and stow the baby buggy instead of standing with it and blocking the carriage exit beats me. Perhaps, as she only looked to be 14 or so, she hasn't yet taken her GCSE in commonsense. When the trolley service came along it degenerated into total gridlock. The grandmother (with vari-coloured hair) didn't have much more sense either as she decided that the infant from hell would be quieter if she emptied a large heap of crisps on the fold down tray. One sweep of a tiny paw and all but one ended up on the carriage floor. This was repeated twice whereupon grandmother picked up the devil's offspring (who occupied it's OWN seat), stood up and ushered a nice tidy but clearly reluctant couple into the seats saying that she was getting off at the next station. I later saw the couple at the Bridgewater Hall and the lady was still attempting to remove remnants of Quavers from her frock. I could have sworn she crackled as she sat down - and you know how these sounds echo in an auditorium.

Thanks to the evil Transpennine Express deciding that it is now beneath them to stop at my station I no longer have time for a pint or two of excellent ale at a proper pub just down from the Bridgewater Hall. "The Briton's Defense" was so named because it was a recruiting office in the late 1800s. No music, no formica but a range of real ales to make a Methodist salivate. If your juices aren't flowing by the beer on tap then the meals blackboard - "Real wild boar and venison cooked in wine" should do the trick. Even my concert-going pal, who is a slightly lapsed veggie was impressed. Tonight we managed to quickly guzzle a pint of Tetley's Bitter (it DOES travel well outside of Yorkshire) before the performance but it was all too hurried to be savoured properly. We have decided to set aside a Friday night in November, spurn St Cecilia in favour of St Camra and sample some traditional Mancunian pubs. I'll drink to that...

Clearing Out

Today, at long last, I have begun a clear out. Having criticised my  late father for never throwing anything away I have had to admit to myself that I am a "just in case" person. I keep things just in case they come in handy at some undefined date in the future. A clear out (partial, just in case) of the cupboard under the stairs revealed, amongst other things, a small vacuum cleaner, a power drill and a non-working kettle. I defy Valerie Singleton and all the sticky-back plastic in the world to conjure something out of those 3 items. There are also 4 large tins of satin finish emulsion (Honey colour) which I, at present, lack the courage to open, since they moved down here with me almost 20 years ago. I delude myself that they have not been opened and therefore will still be perfectly usable.

I discovered the Freecycle website some time ago and used it to pass on a television set. Someone's Mum replied almost immediately to my posting and said her son wanted one for his bedroom to use for computer gaming. The poor kid didn't know what hit him. It was a 26" perfectly good standard television which not only weighed a ton but was hellish to carry as all the weight was in the screen. Naturally I couldn't move it myself so he had to struggle alone. I hope he had the strength to play games on it.... Anyway, I digress. Today I have used Freecycle to clear out another couple of items, namely a food processor and some bits & pieces for a model railway.  In case you think I have made a lot of progress there is an entire spare bedroom full of "just in cases" - including appropriately enough, several cases.

Where Do I Start?

I'd never thought about doing a blog until recently when an internet friend (you know who you are, Su)  mentioned that she and her husband had started one. Prior to this the nearest I'd been to blogging was doing one of those irritating round robins that you slip in with a Christmas card. You know the sort of thing - one that you said you'd never do after reading someone elses and then find yourself doing one anyway and justifying it, to yourself at least,  by saying that it keeps in touch with people.

So... where do I start?  I retired from the Civil Service almost two years ago after increasing periods of time off work due to illness. In the space of 11 months my car was hit, first  broadside on and then from the rear. After the first collision I tried changing the colour of the car but to no avail. Increasing pain in my neck, shoulder and left arm was finally diagnosed as a trapped nerve. Two operations to chip and drill bits out of the cervical vertebrae didn't have much effect. A few years later I compounded the whole thing by falling 5 ft into a Greek concrete storm drain, snapping off a rib right next to the spine and just below the aforementioned vertebrae.  I now have nerve damage in my neck, arthritis in my shoulder and what feels like a permanent toothache from neck to left hand. This has led me to the conclusion that you don't bounce as well as you did 40 years ago.