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.