A Grecian Shanghai, Scootered and Train Lagged.

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

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

The middle section. 10 metres in...

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

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

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

Soon to disappear

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

Before the deluge

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

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

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

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

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

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

English Summer

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

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

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


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

Before

After

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

An Uncertain Boiler and The Best Easter Card.

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

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

From Dasha, Year 3

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

Happy Easter "Egg"!

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

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

Sinful Washing, Penitential Shower and Cheesed Off

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

Return to Prison, Kidnap and an Easter Bunny

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

Has Spring really sprung?

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

Does this really look like me?

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


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

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

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

Bin day 7am

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

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

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

Nailsea Hospitality

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

Admiring Brunel's architecture!

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

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

 

No

 it's a pint of IPA"

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

A Sabbath Gasman, an Old Boiler and A Bin Victory.

In my last missive, dear reader, I left you with Kojak awaiting the Gas Man. After several phone calls assuring me that  the service engineer was running late but would arrive I finally got a call at 3.45pm admitting that he would not make it. To say that I was annoyed is the understatement of the year.  Let's just say that the lady who phoned got her ears severely chewed. Kojak's kitchen is miniscule and the area around the boiler had been cleared from 8am onwards ready for the imminent non-arrival. As every other worksurface was taken up with homeless items it meant that preparing any sort of meal was impossible. I had not eaten since 07.30am so it was an angry and hungry Kojak who set out for the shops. I first made a call to my friendly farmer and, arriving at milking time, did the usual self-service before heading for the supermarket.
Sunday dawned and with it the doubtful assurance that the gas man would call and that Chez Kojak would be early on his list of visitations. Once again this meant an early and unwilling departure from the sprung edge 4 drawer divan. At 10am he actually arrived. He was quite taken with the ingenious contraption I had rigged up to prevent water dripping onto the kitchen worksurface, a simple device of sellotape, half a plastic bag tailored to make a chute and a measuring jug. The young man - I say young but that's a relative term of course because, being a gentleman of a certain age all policemen, doctors, gas men etc. seem to be recent school leavers. However, I digress. The young man quickly fixed the leak and was about to leave when I reminded him that the annual service had also been booked - does no-one read ze instruktions now? However, he was quite polite and I noted with approval that when he went out to check the gas meter he was careful to wipe his feet throughly on re-entry. Anyway the rest of the service proceeded without incident and the old boiler got an "A" rated seal of approval. The central heating boiler also passed....
This morning was recycling bin day so for the third day running I had to lever my carcase out of the sprung edge etc. A gentleman of a certain age really shouldn't have to do this for days on end! After two sly victories by the evil binherren I was determined to end their successes. I adopted the "visible ambush" technique and on this occasion victory was mine on all three collection fronts. By lunchtime the weekend was beginning to take it's toll so I comforted myself with a large slice of lemon drizzle cake and a nap in the armchair.

A State of War, a Suitcase Spectacle and a Tardy Gas Man

Monday dawned as grey as the designated bin. As usual I had to extricate my carcase out of the sprung edge 4 drawer divan at some ungodly hour thanks to the Oberbinfuhrer's thoughtless diktat. Mindful of the earlier act of  hostility by the recycling binherren I resolved to be particularly vigilant. I am a gentleman of a certain age and unfortunately prone to the odd requirement to visit the bathroom and during one of these visits the evil binherren struck! Oblivious to the large house number liberally displayed on every side and also visible to overhead aircraft they callously dumped my bin in front of a neighbour's house. I say callously but the placement was deliberate - both bins neatly placed side by side blocking the path to my neighbour's door. Being of a charitable disposition to neighbours I retrieved my bin and also moved hers to one side. No such charity extends to binherren however and after this latest provocation I am forced to declare that a state of war exists between Chez Kojak and the Oberbinfuhrer.
On Thursday I had to go to the big city to purchase a small wheelie suitcase for my forthcoming trip to admire the architecture of Brunel's passenger shed at Bristol Templemeads station. Hopefully the Beer Festival which happens to be in session there will not interfere with my study. Now I do possess several suitcases, in fact I could probably open a shop but they are all of a large size.  While I was in the metropolis known as Preston I called to make an appointment for an eye test. I was delighted to be offered a test later that afternoon. A careful check of omnibus times led me to collect the suitcase and then proceed to the opticians. Unfortunately the suitcase itself was encased in a large, light but unwieldly cardboard box which was so stoutly packed it was impossible to remove. Adding to my woes was the frequent bathroom requirement that gentlemen of a certain age are prone to.  Hence the spectacle of  Kojak struggling with a large cardboard box on his way to get spectacles via the restrooms of M&S, the shopping mall and Debenhams. At Debenhams I felt compelled to buy a guilty cup of tea which of course did nothing to ease the situation.
Today the gas man cometh. He should have cometh this morning as promised but apparently British Gas runneth late and knoweth not when they arriveth. There is a very real chance of the state of war being extended. I am mindful of the dangers of waging war on two fronts but if lacking British Gas, Chez Kojak has plenty of British Grit.  

The Bloody Bathroom, More Chicken and Pancakes

I bade farewell to nephew and great-niece on Saturday morning as they continued their journey to Chester University. This was another exploratory visit for potential university places and later reports from them indicated that they did offer the type of journalism course she was looking for. My tagine experiment seems to have worked well as nephew muttered that a family sized one was going to be on the shopping list. As both he and his wife have a varying working day so something which could sit quietly in the oven for hours would be useful. The hearty appetites of my relatives had also stretched to demolishing the pudding. My great friend Margs always arrives with something in the way of a gift and on her last visit she had presented me with a panettone. A few attempts had made a significant impact but there was still quite a bit left. I solved the problem by making a panettone bread & butter pudding with a reasonable slug of sherry in the custard. That cooked quite nicely and slowly underneath the tagine.    
I did have a slight casualty when I caught my arm on the very top of the tagine lid leaving a fairsized red weal on my arm. I thought nothing about it until I had a shower later in the day. I didn't take any initial notice of the expected stinging sensation until I saw red spots all over the bath and shower screen. It seemed my earnest scrubbing had removed the already damaged skin. I have often been called a bleeder in my life and have never had any problems providing the required pint of rare blood to the Blood Tranfusion Service. I was, however still dripping water and liberally transfusing red corpuscles all over the bath and, to my horror, all over the new clean cream towel. The Horns of the Dalai Lama once again. Did I dry first and then apply first aid? Naturally all the necessary equipment was not in the bathroom. I knew this because I had removed the sticking plasters to the kitchen, figuring out that they were much more likely to be needed there. I won't paint too much of a picture of a damp, naked Kojak moving around the house but fortunately net curtains prevent severe trauma to the neighbours.
Having staunched the flow I then had to attend to the other victim - the cream towel. On nephews departure I had already changed bedding and towels and set the washing machine chugging so I smeared some stain remover on the bloody towel and put it to soak. I then had to attend to the bloody bathroom which looked like a limited version of a chain saw massacre. Having completed the First Aid and cleanup I then had to replenish supplies. I had taken some bacon out of the new fridge-freezer in case bacon butties were needed for breakfast but my visitors had been content with tea and toast so somehow the bacon needed to be used up.  Mr Tesco provided some chicken thighs which, wrapped in bacon and cooked in a cheese sauce made a tasty meal for a day or two. 


Tuesday was Shrove Tuesday so the last of the chicken was forsaken for pancakes. I may have mentioned before that I believe there must have been an army cook somewhere in the Kojak family tree as we can't seem to cook in small quantities. And so it was with the pancake batter. I lost count of the number but I did end up with a rather large plate of pancakes, sprinkled with sugar and lemon juice. I need not look at another pancake for some time...

Tagine Cuisine

At Christmas, Santa, in the guise of one of my nephews & his family bought me a Moroccan tagine. Actually it wasn't from Morocco but from the Hairy Bikers but you know what I mean. I spent some time looking at recipes but found that if you Googled "Tagine Recipes"  what you actually got in many cases were recipes for tagine dishes but cooked in a normal oven casserole dish. Now I wanted none of this pseudo nonsense. If I was going to launch Kojak's Kitchen down the tagine trail it had to be the pukka stuff or not at all! Having blithely trumpeted this I have of course had to modify my aspirations since the average British house does not not cater for cooking over a charcoal fire except:-
(a) If you have a barbecue in the garden and
(b) If you are prepared to do it under an umbrella.


The lean mean cooking tagine

 Since I do not have (a) and have frequently done (b) I have to settle for using the oven. Kojak's kitchen is rather bijou and cupboard space is very limited so the bright blue tagine sits on top of a wall cupboard. As is the way with things on top of cupboards the intention to immediately use it faded slightly.

A few weeks ago I received a telephone call from the same nephew. He was taking his eldest daughter down to an Open Day at Chester University and could they come down and stay the night before? This would save them a very early start from their home near Newcastle. Now as chance would have it I was looking into the kitchen as we spoke and naturally the tagine leapt into guilty view. To forestall the inevitable question "Have you used it" I had to quickly renew my researches into tasty tagine dishes. Because nephew and great niece were uncertain about the precise time of arrival the use of the tagine was quite appropriate since  it's basically a Moroccan slow cooker and once prepared, the dish can look after itself in the oven quite nicely for an hour or three.  You may be surprised, dear reader that I am old enough to have a great niece. In fact I have a clutch of great nieces and nephews. I put my youthful appearance down to clean living, moderation in all things and a sparing use of alcohol... here endeth the fairy tale....
One of the cardinal rules about tagine cooking (I only know this because I read about it) is that you don't lift the lid because the conical shape is designed to ensure that evaporated liquid rises and then drops down on the contents to keep them moist at all times. Because I was a tagine virgin I had warned nephew that the meal would either be a superb surprise or else we'd be having the dish of the day from the local chippy. In the event, the dish, chicken with potatoes, carrots, onions and herbs & spices, turned out well although I must add that if you feel compelled to add some pre-soaked brown lentils make sure you arrange them all at the bottom so they absorb the juices. Even great niece, who is a bit picky about food, had seconds. Nephew had third & forths so  I think it was a success. In hindsight I should have taken a photograph but we were too busy eating....

Meat and No Veg, Supermarket Sweep, Itchy Monday and a Close shave

Following the initial success with the new breadmaker I decided to introduce my tried, tested and enjoyed, low fat, low salt wholemeal loaf to the new machine. I had to do some mathematics as the new model makes a larger loaf and the baking  programme is slightly different. The result was very palatable but I felt some further tweaking would improve matters. I approached this with some caution  as I remember all too clearly scraping overflowing dough mix off the innards of the previous model after some over-adventurous quantity adjustment. A softly softly approach was implemented and whilst it did not quite catchee monkee it was nevertheless a clear step towards ensnaring the simian. On Sunday I decided to use some more of the excellent Garden Centre beef to make a steak pie. Thinking that I would avoid a last minute rush for the evening meal I prepared the meat, put it into the oven and went to prepare the veg. A tad prematurely as I discovered to my horror that there was no veg. I was sure I had purchased some on the previous Friday. I even remember writing down what I fancied. I blame the incident, not on a senior moment, but on the unfortunate hop, step & stumble caused by the doorway kerfuffle. Now I am seldom given to panic but the time was 3.45pm and Sunday closing was at 4pm.  Moving much more quickly than is recommended for a gentleman of a certain age I did the local equivalent of the commercial channel show "Supermarket Sweep" and made the check-out, breathless with seconds to spare. I did require a calming cup of tea on my return home. Steak pie was on the menu. Not as good as mother used to make but appealing enough.

Flushed with success and deserving of a treat I brought the Kenwood into play. I don't usually blow my own cream horn but I do pride myself on turning out a decent cake. Until problems with my wrists made it uncomfortable I would have done everything by hand but the Kenwood is much better than the previous rather haphazard results with the old food processor where a nanosecond too long could result in a chocolate pancake. Mindful that fruit is good for you and that Vitamin C is essential for healthy bones and teeth I thoughtfully added the juice and zest of an orange to make a tasty yet healthy cake - that's my excuse and I'm sticking to it! 

Monday morning dawned. It felt like the middle of the night and in fact it was almost. It was bin day and worse than that, recycling bin day. Once again I had to arise from the sprung edge divan with 4 drawers to do battle with the evil henchmen of the Oberbinfuhrer. Recycling day means a 3 fold attack by the binherren. Now I'm sure that there is a reason behind the change from 2 seperate collections to 3 but  I cannot see how this can be cheaper and more efficient. What it means to us poor targeted citizens and to Chez Kojak in particular is a state of red alert from 07.30 onwards. The green bin and paper/cardboard sack collections pased without incident but the green box, the sneaky green box binherren who have always been my nemesis were later than usual. My anxiety was heightened more than was normal as I had a physio appointment and the time for departure was nigh. My countenance heavy with impending defeat I had no choice but to leave Kojak Villa unguarded. During the physio session Lynn, the physio noticed a sizeable rash on my hand. This was not due to my nervous bin-related state but a reoccurrence of the allergic reaction caused by the wrist brace she had kindly provided some weeks back. I thought I had avoided this by carefully wrapping a bandage around my hand but this had clearly not been a lasting solution, moreover it had begun to itch and the skin was flaking quite badly. I've never had an allergy before unless you count motorway middle lane hoggers, persons stopping without warning in supermarket doorways, people who leave shopping trolleys all over the supermarket car park, bin men, bin men and also bin men. However, the wrist brace has had to be binned and I also can't wear latex at weekends behind closed curtains... not that I ever did of course... Lynn also kindly looked up the results of the blood test I'd had a few weeks before. To my relief and delight my cholesterol count had halved and was now a very healthy 3. I have to admit that this is probably largely due to the statins prescribed by my Health Centre to all old gits but nonetheless  I felt entitled to a celebratory slice of chocolate cake on my return home.  Rounding the corner into my little court I saw that the green box binherren had indeed seized their chance and called while Chez Kojak was unguarded. To my amazement the box had been neatly returned to where I had left it. Have I tamed them at last? Time will tell.
Today was quite a busy day, in retirement terms. To loosely plagiarise Jane Austen, it is a truth universally acknowledged that a gentleman of a certain age can be at home all day and no-one will telephone or call at the house but the moment he is in the shower, or has both hands buried deep in a washing up bowl either or both aforesaid interruptions will occur. And so it was today. Preparing to venture out to retrieve a parcel from the sorting office, the postman having also called while I was at physio the day before, I was performing my ablutions when the window cleaner arrived hours earlier than usual. Fortunately I always keep the bathroom blinds drawn to preserve my modesty and prevent trauma to passing window cleaners. Now my neighbour was also out and we have an agreement that we pay for each others windows when one of us is missing. After a hurried scramble I managed to catch him, slightly damp (me, not him) before he exited the area. Retrieving my parcel from the sorting office I called in at Butlins, the local Open Prison for some fruit & veg and then went on to my friendly farmer for milk. Returning from there I spotted an empty Barber's Shop and also an empty parking space so I made an impromptu call for my Spring haircut, or trim & polish as it is commonly known. Due to my follicley challenged appearance I get a very favourable rate which is even cheaper than the pensioners discount. Having said that, it is only a few minutes work with the clippers and I emerged, smart but definitely Yul Brynnerish and conscious of a distinct draught around the collar. Fortunately that was the only close shave of the day.


The nasty rash on my hand  has required frequent applications of the ubiquitous E45 cream. I may have overdone it last night as I slipped out of bed 3 times...
 

Becalmed and a Basket Jump.

This last week a welcome period of calm has reigned over Chez Kojak. After last weeks shennanigans and at the risk of tempting Fate's fickle finger to jab in my direction I am revelling in it. The new fridge-freezer is quietly humming away and I am consuming the first product of the new breadmaker with relish. I abided strictly by the manufacturer's recipe for my first attempt but I may feel confident to try a variation next. This will require the ageing brain cells to slowly awaken.  Some mathematical calculations will be needed as the new all-singing & dancing bread machine makes a larger loaf than the old one. It is hoped that this will not result in a similarly larger Kojak waistline. Having said that, there appears to be something missing from the fridge - the chocolate shelf is bare. My willpower being what it is, I feel that a visit to Messrs. Morrisons is called for. This will give me the added excitement of indulging in a spot of trolley rage. Although I am myself a gentleman of a certain age I still feel compelled to growl when wrinklies stop for no apparent reason, often in busy shop doorways.
True to form I had not even entered the supermarket when someone abruptly stopped in the doorway and looked around. Now the entrance is quite neat and tidy but it has no architectural merit which would cause one to halt suddenly and look around in wonder. As the person was also towing one of those wheeled shopping bags the sudden stop created quite a bit of carnage. A gentle stroll as befits a gentleman of a certain age suddenly changed to something approaching a hop, step & jump. Younger readers will know this as a triple jump. Whatever the name, Kojak entered Morrisons at a rather quicker pace than he had anticipated and narrowly averted a swallow dive into the pile of baskets. Fortunately the remainder of the shopping expedition passed without incident and I returned home shaken but not stirred.  On the bright side, the chocolate shelf in the fridge is now full... 

A Touch of Calm, Sent to Jail and Waiting for Godot's Loaf

After a fairly traumatic week in retired gentleman terms the weekend was relatively peaceful. Having been confined to the house for a succession of collection and delivery reasons you may, dear reader, find it strange that I did not venture out of doors when I was free to do so. I have not taken Trappist vows nor do I have any inclination to be a hermit. The weather was simply so appalling that I chose not to go out. Having divested myself of the breadmaker on Friday I called at the High Street on the way back and did a much needed shop. I was well stocked up with provisions so there was no need to go out into the elements. Saturday and Sunday dawned cold, wet and miserable. That nasty type of cold wet weather that seems to seep into your bones. I had thought to take a photo to illustrate this but opening the patio doors a crack I was immediately assailled by rain sweeping in from the distant Pennines. The weather forecast indicated that the wet stuff was approaching from a westerly direction so I can only surmise that it did a government U turn on reaching Chez Kojak.

On Sunday I thought I would use some more of the excellent beef I had purchased at a garden centre some weeks ago. I rather fancied a steak pie but my hands felt a bit painful for pastry rubbing, perhaps a legacy from Friday's breadmaker toting. All was not lost, however, as I thought I would give the Kenwood a whirl. I was a tad dismayed at the time it took but the end result was very acceptable. It was only later, after a post-operation glance at the instruction manual that I realised it is perfectly possible to make pastry using the dough hook instead of the recommended "K" beater... 

This morning was the usual early and unwilling rise from the sprung edge 4 drawer divan to do battle with the evil binherren. After last weeks sneaky attack I readied myself in ambush. The weather was as grey as the bin so I was armed with an umbrella. Once more I was impressed by the fluid transition from the push in the general direction of Chez Kojak to delivering it into my open arm. I say "arm" because the other one was holding the umbrella. Last week's embarrassing defeat avenged, I took a risky shower as there was always a chance that the new breadmaker might arrive and these things tend to happen when I am soaped up to the armpits. In the event it arrived as I was leaving the house for a physiotherapy appointment, literally leaving - I was actually in the car. During the physio session, I mentioned in conversation  to Lynn, the practice physiotherapist, that I was off to see my friendly farmer for milk & eggs. She mentioned that the local open prison - known as "Butlins" had a farm shop which sold such stuff and as I was out & about I decided to suss out the pros and, pardon the pun, cons. I was pleasantly surprised at the variety in the shop, all grown in the prison except for the milk which was actually from my friendly farmer so I felt much less guilty about forsaking him. Unless the lady who served me was in heavy disguise there was not a con in sight although I did check the boot for "passengers" before I left.

On my return home it was time to unpack and play with the new bread machine. I did all the right things and pressed all the right buttons but it didn't appear to be doing anything for quite some time. Re-reading the manual I was relieved to find that this was perfectly normal. It is a lot quieter than the previous model so I have made one or two anxious checks but all seems well. The proof of the bread will of course be in the eating... 

Confusing M&S, Commuter Cattle Trucks and giving BBC Radio the Clap

Friday brought yet another early rising for me. That made 4 out of 5 days when I was up and about like the proverbial early bird. Retired gentlemen should not be subjected to all this stress. I began to conjecture that perhaps I was not making full use of the sprung edge divan with 4 drawers and Miracoil mattress.

Following the promising email from Messrs Marks & Spencer I set off to the metropolis of Preston. I spurned using my old gits bus pass since lugging a defunct breadmaker on public transport was not my idea of fun. Scraping together some loose change  for parking fees from my meagre pension I set off in the car. My arrival at the M&S Emporium, lugging the deceased appliance caused some confusion. The Returns Desk politely pointed me in the direction of the IT Department since they classed the dead dough machine as technology. At the IT desk they were about to refer me, politely of course, to the Returns Desk when they saw the look on my face. I had adopted the look and posture of an exhausted gentleman of a certain age. Now this was not entirely an act since toting a breadmaker which was dead as a dough dough (sorry!) does somewhat fatigue one. The IT man was perplexed since the store in particular had never stocked breadmakers and the appliance in question was not now stocked by M&S in general. At one point he had every terminal on the desk engaged as he delved ever deeper into the Marks & Sparks computer system. I had thoughtfully provided details of the purchase as shown on my customer account which he gratefully accepted and asked if he could retain. At long last he struck gold and before I could say Hey Presdough a full refund was made!
Before I ventured into the big city I had optimistically ferreted out the replacement and, being a poor pensioner, the cheapest price. Within minutes of my return home it was ordered and I was pleased to note immediately shipped for delivery. My need for a decent crust was now in the hands of the Royal Mail.

This was the first day that I was not waiting for someone to call to collect or deliver so I was able to enjoy a relatively leisurely lunch. In the evening I ventured out for a spot of culture at the Bridgewater Hall, Manchester. Thanks to the evil Transpennine Express I had to leave shortly after 5pm in order to catch my connection at Preston. Decanting from the train there I became aware of a larger than normal number of ticket inspectors - hordes of them in fact. They were backed up by a similar number of the constabulary. In the space of 10 yards I had my ticket checked 3 times. As I had to kick about the station for 30 minutes thanks to the evil Transpennine etc. I decided to stand outside the main entrance and partake of a cigarette. This involved yet another ticket check. By now I was beginning to feel as if I ought to be guilty of something or other. This feeling was heightened by the sight of a large Police vehicle marked "Dog Van". I made a mental note not to pat any Alsatians. In all this coming and going not one of the police paid any attention to motorists and private hire cabs filling every parking space clearly marked for the disabled. On my return much later that night I spoke to a train driver and asked him what had been going on. He said it was just a random check that they carry out at the station to prevent trouble. Now I may be missing something here but I'd have thought that 5.30pm when most travellers are simply going home from work was not the most likely time for trouble to kick off. When the Manchester train came in it was already full and an equal number of people boarded it. Which fool decided that most cross country trains would only run in 3 coach sets? During the day they are half empty and at peak times they are like cattle trucks. Perhaps one day customer care will triumph over train company logistics

The concert  featured the BBC Philharmonic Orchestra and was broadcast live on Radio 3. The early 7pm start and a programme of not widely known works attracted a sadly meagre audience so we were asked to be generous with applause. I'm pleased to say that my hearty clap was broadcast to the nation. We enjoyed a nice piece by Elgar followed by the Saint-Saens piano concerto "Egypt" There wasn't much Egyptian about it but that's the French for you... The last piece was William Walton's Symphony No 2. Technically brilliant and very loud but not to my taste. My slightly lapsed veggie concert going pal liked it but he likes a bit of discord. The early start meant that for once we were afterwards able to enjoy a few leisurely gills of excellent Cumberland ale at the "Briton's Defence". A pub so wonderful that I'd sleep with it. The evening was marred yet again by the tardy arrival of the Transpennine "Express", a misnomer if ever I saw one.  My connection slot at Preston was only 10 minutes so I was more than a little angry at the 15 minute delay. Thoughts of arriving back at Chez Kojak at 12.45am did nothing to sooth me. When I had the temerity to ask the conductor the reason for the delay I got a cursory "We were late in" I remarked that I'd be even later in and received the caring response "Nothing we can do about it" In the event I made my train by 30 seconds after the fastest trans-platform dash I have ever made.  Almost faster than Transpennine Express. Just as well that no-one stopped me 3 times to check my ticket. Oh, and at a time when most passengers were travelling home after a night out in town and probably several drinks there was not a policeman in sight...

Cast Out in the Cold, Dough Rain(ed on) Me

Yesterday, after my tragic failure to provide my daily bread I perused the internet in the hope of finding a spare part for the breadmaker. I made 2 discoveries.
1) Messrs Marks & Sparks no longer supplied their own brand of breadmaker.
2) There were no spares to be found for this model
Filled with even more despair I made a quick online search for a replacement.  Having ascertained that there would be no fridge and freezer collection I then escaped from Chez Kojak to replenish supplies. I called to see my friendly farmer and as usual found him washing off traces of bovine end product so I did the usual self-service and left the payment by the cash tin. From there I continued on to a nearby Retail Park to follow up on my internet search.  There I discovered that the supplier who seemed to have the most likely replacement at a favourable price had inconsiderately disappeared from the Retail Park and was now only operating online. It's erstwhile partners in retail were still there but their prices were far above the attractive price quoted on the ether. I did at least try to inspect the particular model which was on display but found it wedged into a shelf space much too small for it's height. I made several furtive attempts to free it and then wandered around adopting a prospective customer look. Not a sniff of an assistant!  Where was CCTV when one needed it? I made a mental note that if I'd tried to hide the box under my coat and head for the exit I'd have been quickly rugby tackled to the ground by every assistant and their grandmother. Exit Kojak, disgruntled, stage left. On my return home I spent a fruitless hour or so searching for the receipt for the deceased breadmaker. Although I could not remember the date I had purchased the defunct machine my ageing brain cells did remember that I had exercised my abilities as a "grey surfer" and purchased it online. After a bit of sleuthing that would have impressed Monsieur Poirot I discovered my online account and with it a record of purchases. God bless M&S -  I had 9 months left of their lovely 2 year guarantee! I rattled off an email immediately.

This morning, still mentally fatigued from yesterday's battles with breadmaker and recycleherren I still had to arise from the sprung edge 4 drawer etc. at an earlier hour than I felt appropriate to a retired gentleman of a certain age. During my ascerbic phone call to the fridge collectors I was promised that I would be first on the list for collection today and could expect a visitation soon after 9.30am. Now the freezer had been thoroughly dried out but there was a minute but mysterious drip from somewhere in it's innards. Desperate to give them no reason to refuse to gather it into their arms I had placed an old towel underneath and I continued to check this regularly and mop up any moist patches. I continued to check and mop until almost noon which is when they finally arrived. Luckily I was alert enough to hear a faint knock on the UPVC double glazed door or I might still be faced with the twin appliances glaring at me from where the dining table ought to have been. Is there some sort of recycling allergic reaction to doorbells? Have these minions been subjected to some unspeakable doorbell trauma in the past? Are they doorbell visually challenged? I quickly discovered that they are also allergic to doormats as I watched them stride across a muddy patch of grass and stomp straight into Chez Kojak without so much as a cursory wipe. Reluctant to jeopardise matters I kept my silence which, as anyone who knows me will tell, is an almost impossible thing for me to do. The operation was concluded and breathing a sigh of relief I closed the door and consigned the appliances to the cold.

There was no time to sit down of course as I had to search and remove the traces of the muddy outdoors which the sods, if you will pardon the pun, had kindly left as a souvenir. At least the lounge carpet benefitted from a more thorough application of the hoover than I am ashamed to say it had seen for some time. A celebratory spot of lunch was called for during which I espied and removed yet more particles of dough from yesterdays debacle.  Quite how far and how wide the now crusty remnants had spread amazed me. A rain of half-mixed dough from halfway up the wall to below the belt. Some had even adhered to my spectacles... While we are on matters doughy I received a reply from M&S Customer Services - one of the few, I venture to suggest, where "customer" and "service" still mean something. I am to present the offending dough kneader at my nearest local store and hope that they will look more kindly on my plight than Marie Antoinette did when the citizens of Paris had a similar misfortune.  

Defrosted, a Decycled Freecycle and a Doughy disaster

Much of Tuesday was spent defrosting. I don't mean my demeanour which is always sunny and sweet excepting in my relations with the evil Oberbinfuhrer and his apparatchniks when it could be described as positively antarctic.

Since Monday my dining room has been taken over by squatters. Glowering at me like a pair of evil twins are the old fridge and freezer. Having successfully transferred all frozen foodstuffs to the new appliance I now had to defrost the freezer. Unwilling to have the axminster deluged by melting ice I hit upon another one of my cunning plans. Perched on a stool, resting on a polythene sheet and tilted forward and to one side the freezer was perfectly positioned to divest it's icy trickles into a plastic storage box. And there it sat occasionally warmed by a fan heater. Although old and like their owner, a tad worn about the edges, they were still serviceable, the freezer more so than the fridge which had a hair trigger thermostat. Naturally from the moment I ordered the new one, the fridge had behaved impeccably. I had been about to have both items carted off to the cold store in the sky when I remembered the Freecycle network which had proved efficacious on several prior occasions. Feeling philanthropic I placed an advertisement and almost immediately received several replies. The deal was struck! The lucky recipient was to pick both items up this morning. I confidently set about giving both appliances a wash and brush up paying particular attention to the less attractive areas at the rear. I should have known that the fickle finger of Fate had not yet finished with me. At 10am the expected phone call came but NOT to arrange a collection time. The items could not be collected today and there was doubt about when and indeed if they could be. Unwilling to go through the whole procedure again I decided to contact my arch enemy the Oberbinfuhrer in his capacity as Oberrecycler. Speaking to one of his minions I was pleasantly surprised to be told that they could pick the items up in about 1 hour. Feeling much relieved I settled down to wait confident that I would then be free to reclaim my dining room and exit Chez Kojak to purchase much needed provisions. Wrong again! 1 hour passed, another hour slipped by without any sighting of a collection team.
Deciding to occupy my time by using some of my diminishing milk supply to  furnish me with a crust I loaded up the breadmaker. Immediately after switching on I became aware of a worrying change in the normal mixing noise. My anxiety was further heightened when I spotted a small pile of flour next to the drive shaft. The drive shaft ought to have been attached to the mixing pan yet here it was innocently peering up at me from the kitchen worksurface. In an attempt to salvage what I could from this mishap I attempted to insert the drive shaft and connect it to the kneading blade which was somewhere at the bottom of the flour, milk and water mixture. My success was quickly doused. Extracting my hand and turning to rinse off the doughy goo that was dripping everywhere I heard a sickening rattle as the drive shaft shot out and disintegrated on impact with the worksurface. Simultaneously the hastily placed bread pan tipped over and spilled a nasty gooey mess which began to drip down onto the floor. Meanwhile my hand was shedding gobbets of the flour milk and water mix over everything else. It took an age to clear up the carnage. When I finally found the strength to phone the evil recycleherren I was informed that the recycling team were running late and therefore would not call until the next day.
Oh, and I didn't win the lottery either...