Saturday was a hot & spicy day. This did not relate to the weather nor sadly to myself but to the contents of my slow cooker. The pork casserole would normally have been tasty and redolent with mostly paprika but for the foreseeable future the paprika will have to be rationed. Now before you rush off to the local emporium I should hastily add that there is no worldwide or even local shortage of paprika. It is a measure that has become necessary in Chez Kojak following a tidy up of my spices. Each year, during my sojourns in Greece I renew my acquaintance with my friend Stavros the Herb. Stavros has earned the sobriquet of "the Herb" because naturally enough he has a herb stall. Every year, before my departure to Grecian climes I resolve to make a check of the herbal contents of Kojak's kitchen and every year that resolution founders in the hurly-burly of packing. I have to rely on what's left of my memory in order to recall being a bit short of this or that when I make my purchases from Stavros. As I never cease to remind you, I am a gentleman of a certain age and I am resigned to the odd lapse in the memory department. It follows that there are a few "just in case" purchases. I am a great fan of "just in cases", I have a whole room devoted to "just in case" items. As a result, the herb cupboard tends to get a trifle cluttered with surplus packets. During a recent declutter I inadvertantly mixed an unknown quantity of hot chilli powder into the paprika jar. This was discovered when a goulash surprisingly took on the attributes of a mean and frankly volcanic vindaloo curry. Being of a frugal nature I am reluctant to ditch the substantial contents of the paprika jar so a judicious and sparing use of the spice is now necessary.
Saturday was one of those bright sunny but extremely cold days. My friend Liz was up from the relative warmth of Bristol and together with another ex-work colleague we perused a garden centre in the afternoon. It was dark by the time we returned and we had become sufficiently chilled to require something to thaw the bones so the hot & spicy casserole came into it's own. Inroads were also made into the largely intact Apple & Blueberry crumble prepared earlier in the week. I was glad of the company as I had made a more than substantial amount of both dishes and tasty as they were, I did not relish the thought of eating them for the rest of the week. Having purchased a large amount of beef while we were out there was no longer any room in Kojak's freezer. My friend left on Sunday lunchtime and was quickly replaced by another visitor. An old friend who I had not met for several years called en route to his home in Lincolnshire. What with all the coming and going and getting up to date it was late in the evening before I felt up to preparing for the Oberbinfuhrerherren's visitation at some ungodly hour of the following morning.
Monday morning dawned. At least it would have dawned if the Oberbinfuhrer's diktat had been for a civilised time instead of halfway through the night. I wonder if he realises that not everyone suffers from permanent Sunday night insomnia. This Monday was Green Monday and three collections were ordained, in any order at any time, requiring a constant state of red alert from 7.30am onwards. Going to work did not generate so much stress. The last collection involved the green box and I was fascinated by the novel and ingenious innovation adopted by one of the binherren. Instead of collecting a box from each dwelling place in my little court he appeared with a topless wheelie bin. This was not as salacious as it sounds, dear reader, the lid had merely been removed... Moving from house to house he emptied the contents of each box into his topless model. It was at this moment that the fortnightly chickens of Fylde Borough Council's collection policy came home to roost in the most literal and ironic way. The bin was too small! I revelled in the sight of the Oberbinfuhrerman perched on top of the bin, bouncing up and down using his backside to squash down the contents to make room for more. Now the items we are graciously permitted to put in the green box include glass. We are not allowed by the Oberbinfuhrer to include broken glass. This is no doubt due to some Brussels Gauleiter imposing a Health & Safety decree but the aforementioned decree is rendered somewhat worthless as the decanting of the contents of the boxes is usually accompanied by the tinkle of breaking glass. Given all that, the actions of the Oberbinfuhrerman were a tad risky to say the least. I expected at any moment that he'd give an anguished squawk and fly off his perch.
Monday, 31 January 2011
Saturday, 29 January 2011
Size Matters, The Blackburn Clap and a Cold Platform
Last night I attended a concert in Blackburn. My slightly lapsed veggie concert going pal and I occasionally make a foray there instead of our normal venue at the Bridgewater Hall Manchester. The Halle Orchestra was in residence and they like a good Halle at Blackburn. I have noticed at concerts there that other very good orchestras playing a good programme of classical music are not quite so well endowed in the audience department. Blackburn folk also like their seats, not the anatomical bit that sits on a seat but the seat itself - and not just any old seat. My pal, who works in Blackburn went to book the tickets and was told that he could not have two particular seats because two little old ladies had booked those seats for every orchestral concert for the last 30 years.
Size matters in music and not just the size of the audience. We were treated to a Mozart Clarinet concerto played with an extended clarinet. The instrument was almost as large as the lady who played it. Apparently Mozart's favourite clarinetist developed the basset clarinet as it is known to enable it to play notes a full octave lower than the norm, extending the range of the instrument. You learn something different every day at Blackburn. A technically difficult piece but played very proficiently. The audince liked it so much that they gave her the Blackburn Clap. This is not some nasty social disease but a method of appreciation which I have never heard before at a classical concert. It is the sound of feet drumming on the floor. The last time I heard that I was 8 years old at the ABC Minors Saturday matinee - it was our response to a particularly boring film.
Blackburn is an easier journey for me since I do not have to experience 20 minutes hanging around Preston station to catch the evil Transpennine Express train that passes through my station but now refuses to stop there. The ease of the journey is somewhat undermined by Northern Rails' insistence on using their very oldest trains on the Blackburn route. On my journey there I scarcely noticed any difference in the temperature between a cold platform and the interior of the train. Now I had wrapped up warm because the biting cold I experienced the day before on the Lytham mud flats was still very much in evidence and I know platform 4 at Blackburn of old. Fate's fickle train finger has ordained that whatever train I catch, it will always come in on the outermost and most exposed station platform. We did manage a pint of excellent Ruddles Best Bitter after the concert and I timed my departure from the pub to minimise the waiting time at the station. When the rattley old train wheeezed in I was pleasantly surprised to find that the driver had managed to find the on/off switch for the train heating. My euphoria was extinguished as the train picked up what passes for speed and it became evident that the draught proofing was nonexistant. I am sure that Global Warming could be averted if Northern Rail made judicious use of a roll of foam-backed insulating tape. I was the sole occupant of the carriage apart from half a dozen youngsters who seemed impervious to the arctic conditions and audibly had achieved Grade 1 GCSEs in four letter words. As I paid for my ticket I flashed my Senior Railcard to the conductress. She leaned over and said in a conspirital tone "You're lucky tonight, this is a quiet train. On Thursdays it's full of students" At first I failed to register the true import of this whispered aside. I thought that such a reassurance should have been saved for elderly, vulnerable travellers who might have felt insecure in such young, loud company. The awful realisation hit me like a tsunami - I was the elderly vulnerable traveller! Feeling about 100 years old I made my way home to a pot of tea and some elderly slippers.
Size matters in music and not just the size of the audience. We were treated to a Mozart Clarinet concerto played with an extended clarinet. The instrument was almost as large as the lady who played it. Apparently Mozart's favourite clarinetist developed the basset clarinet as it is known to enable it to play notes a full octave lower than the norm, extending the range of the instrument. You learn something different every day at Blackburn. A technically difficult piece but played very proficiently. The audince liked it so much that they gave her the Blackburn Clap. This is not some nasty social disease but a method of appreciation which I have never heard before at a classical concert. It is the sound of feet drumming on the floor. The last time I heard that I was 8 years old at the ABC Minors Saturday matinee - it was our response to a particularly boring film.
Blackburn is an easier journey for me since I do not have to experience 20 minutes hanging around Preston station to catch the evil Transpennine Express train that passes through my station but now refuses to stop there. The ease of the journey is somewhat undermined by Northern Rails' insistence on using their very oldest trains on the Blackburn route. On my journey there I scarcely noticed any difference in the temperature between a cold platform and the interior of the train. Now I had wrapped up warm because the biting cold I experienced the day before on the Lytham mud flats was still very much in evidence and I know platform 4 at Blackburn of old. Fate's fickle train finger has ordained that whatever train I catch, it will always come in on the outermost and most exposed station platform. We did manage a pint of excellent Ruddles Best Bitter after the concert and I timed my departure from the pub to minimise the waiting time at the station. When the rattley old train wheeezed in I was pleasantly surprised to find that the driver had managed to find the on/off switch for the train heating. My euphoria was extinguished as the train picked up what passes for speed and it became evident that the draught proofing was nonexistant. I am sure that Global Warming could be averted if Northern Rail made judicious use of a roll of foam-backed insulating tape. I was the sole occupant of the carriage apart from half a dozen youngsters who seemed impervious to the arctic conditions and audibly had achieved Grade 1 GCSEs in four letter words. As I paid for my ticket I flashed my Senior Railcard to the conductress. She leaned over and said in a conspirital tone "You're lucky tonight, this is a quiet train. On Thursdays it's full of students" At first I failed to register the true import of this whispered aside. I thought that such a reassurance should have been saved for elderly, vulnerable travellers who might have felt insecure in such young, loud company. The awful realisation hit me like a tsunami - I was the elderly vulnerable traveller! Feeling about 100 years old I made my way home to a pot of tea and some elderly slippers.
Friday, 28 January 2011
Rhubarb, Cuneiform and Blueteeth
Still fatigued after the trek to the big city yesterday I had to make another route march today, this time to Lytham. This was not the jolly, backslapping banter-full (non-sexist) sort of march but rather the "creeping like a snail" type. Kojak was going to the dentist.
On my last visit, a short while ago I had a bit of minor infilling done. This was the dental equivalent of a spot of repointing on a brick wall. Unfortuately the sand to mortar ratio must have been wrong because the thing came out during breakfast. My snap crackle & pop became snap crackle & crunch. I was a tad miffed at this because I hate going to the dentist even for an innocuous inspection. I made a peevish telephone call to the hated dental surgery and was a mite taken aback when the receptionist said "There's a cancellation, can you be here for 2pm?" Now I was also running a bit short of milk and I had to pass the friendly farmer's dairy parlour so at least I could give my green credentials a boost by combining the two. The country road also meanders past the local recycling depot and I had a broken bulb to recycle. It was one of those energy saving ones with a low carbon footprint but strangely a high mercury one which will poison the entire world if you slip it into the kitchen bin. Full of righteous pride, bursting with planet-saving fervour and clutching the deadly article at arms length I pulled up at the recycling centre only to find it cordoned off. A very helpful recycling person (clearly NOT one of the Oberbinfuhrer's lackeys) apologised, telling me that the site was closed for refurbishment and I should harbour the lightbulb until it reopened in 2 weeks time. Two things crossed my mind immediately. What if the noxious mercurial fumes seeped out into Chez Kojak and I should wake up one morning to find that my teeth had fallen out and if so, was it worthwhile proceeding onwards to the dentists? As I continued with my journey I also mused on what a refurbished rubbish dump would look like. A comfy armchair or two perhaps while your recycling requirements were discussed? A loyalty card system?
Now the worthy residents of Lytham apparently do not much care for the automobile even though they likely own two or three of them. Finding a parking spot anywhere near the centre is fraught with uncertainty so I always build in sufficient time for a circuit or two of the High St. It follows therefore that the availability of a parking place is in inverse ratio to the amount of time in hand. Arrive in plenty of time and you can guarantee a vacant spot right next to the surgery. If you are running late you can resign yourself to a frenzied motorised scrabble up and down the Lytham lanes culminating in a fast trot to the dental establishment because Time and NHS dentists wait for no man! And so it was that I had 45 minutes to kill. I have previously mentioned my loathing of the dentist's chair so the idea of 45 minutes in the waiting room did not appeal. I instead embarked on a stroll along the sea front, it being a clear day. The view was indeed pleasant but the wind was anything but. Straight from the frozen wastes of Siberia it leapt over the Pennines, hurtled over Southport and the Ribble estuary mud and chilled me to the bone. I recalled a friend from my days in Grimsby who called it a "lazy" wind because it would rather go through you than around you. I had as usual left my camera at home but flushed with success at my Bluetooth experiment I thought I'd risk a photo or two on my mobile phone.
I also noted that the marks left by bird's feet in the mud looked strangely like the cuneiform writing which I remember from my early childhood. On my previous mobile photographic attempt I conveniently blamed the lack of clarity on the presence of dense, freezing fog. Today's crystal clear environment exposed the 3 mega pixie lens for what it was - duff. I cannot really whinge too much as I have always proclaimed loudly that I have a camera and therefore do not need a mobile phone laden with musak, mpeg, clothes peg etc.
The biting wind was begining to seep into my bones and there was an increasing chance of my acquiring blue teeth in addition to Bluetooth so I reluctantly headed towards the doubtful comfort of the dental waiting room. On my way there I passed a greengrocers shop, one of the few still hanging on in the face of supermarket competition. It's no coincidence that there was no large supermarket in the vicinity. My own small town has not fared so well. The advent of a large supermarket in the centre saw the high street decline from 3 butchers shops to none and the same number of greengrocers to one. What particularly attracted my attention was some bright red rhubarb. This was so fresh it almost jumped out of the box. It was, so the lady assistant proudly told me, "straight from the rhubarb triangle of Yorkshire" and it looked so healthy I believe it could have walked all the way. I made a mental note to retrace my tracks post-dentist and procure some. Forty minutes later I did precisely that. My attention strayed to some equally healthy Bramley apples and Blueberries. So tonight, Kojak's kitchen is full of Apple & Blueberry Crumble and rhubarb, rhubarb, lots of rhubarb.
On my last visit, a short while ago I had a bit of minor infilling done. This was the dental equivalent of a spot of repointing on a brick wall. Unfortuately the sand to mortar ratio must have been wrong because the thing came out during breakfast. My snap crackle & pop became snap crackle & crunch. I was a tad miffed at this because I hate going to the dentist even for an innocuous inspection. I made a peevish telephone call to the hated dental surgery and was a mite taken aback when the receptionist said "There's a cancellation, can you be here for 2pm?" Now I was also running a bit short of milk and I had to pass the friendly farmer's dairy parlour so at least I could give my green credentials a boost by combining the two. The country road also meanders past the local recycling depot and I had a broken bulb to recycle. It was one of those energy saving ones with a low carbon footprint but strangely a high mercury one which will poison the entire world if you slip it into the kitchen bin. Full of righteous pride, bursting with planet-saving fervour and clutching the deadly article at arms length I pulled up at the recycling centre only to find it cordoned off. A very helpful recycling person (clearly NOT one of the Oberbinfuhrer's lackeys) apologised, telling me that the site was closed for refurbishment and I should harbour the lightbulb until it reopened in 2 weeks time. Two things crossed my mind immediately. What if the noxious mercurial fumes seeped out into Chez Kojak and I should wake up one morning to find that my teeth had fallen out and if so, was it worthwhile proceeding onwards to the dentists? As I continued with my journey I also mused on what a refurbished rubbish dump would look like. A comfy armchair or two perhaps while your recycling requirements were discussed? A loyalty card system?
 |
| The Lytham Windmill still minus 2 of it's sails after last autumn's gales |
The biting wind was begining to seep into my bones and there was an increasing chance of my acquiring blue teeth in addition to Bluetooth so I reluctantly headed towards the doubtful comfort of the dental waiting room. On my way there I passed a greengrocers shop, one of the few still hanging on in the face of supermarket competition. It's no coincidence that there was no large supermarket in the vicinity. My own small town has not fared so well. The advent of a large supermarket in the centre saw the high street decline from 3 butchers shops to none and the same number of greengrocers to one. What particularly attracted my attention was some bright red rhubarb. This was so fresh it almost jumped out of the box. It was, so the lady assistant proudly told me, "straight from the rhubarb triangle of Yorkshire" and it looked so healthy I believe it could have walked all the way. I made a mental note to retrace my tracks post-dentist and procure some. Forty minutes later I did precisely that. My attention strayed to some equally healthy Bramley apples and Blueberries. So tonight, Kojak's kitchen is full of Apple & Blueberry Crumble and rhubarb, rhubarb, lots of rhubarb.
Wednesday, 26 January 2011
Trouser Problems and a Bad Hand of Cards
Yesterday I had a problem in the trouser department. Now this is not uncommon in gentlemen of a certain age but before, dear reader, you leap to the predictable conclusion this was not one of "those" problems.
On my last foray into the big city I purchased a pair of corduroy trousers from Messrs Marks & Spencer. Not the most trendy of emporiums but I am long past being "with it". Nowadays I am built more for comfort than speed and my wardrobe reflects this. One of the advantages of Marks & Sparks is that if you know your size you can bypass the perils of the changing room. I have often discovered that the flimsy curtain provided in place of a door is not quite ample enough to cover the opening. Add to that the embarrassment of bursting through the said curtain, having lost one's balance with one leg in the trousers and one leg out and it is a situation I prefer to avoid. It has never quite happened to me but I have had several near misses. I have more consideration for my fellow men than to subject them to the sight of a hopping Kojak in overcoat and underwear.
Having digressed once again I shall return to the nub of the matter. I was dismayed to find that the waistline measurement which had served me so well in the past no longer seemed adequate. I do not wish to cast aspersions in the direction of M&S but it may be that in these times of economic depression they have been forced into a less generous system of measuring. In order to exchange the meanly tailored garment another excursion into the metropolis of Preston was called for and I was also able to finally divest myself of a large bag of Christmas cards. For many years the local Post Office has kindly offered a collecting point for Christmas cards and so on Tuesday I laboured there with a large bag only to find that they had ceased this service because of collection problems in previous years. Naturally this was the day when my car was being serviced so having trudged there in the rain I had to trudge back with the damned things. Fortuitously on the way back from the big city I happened to call into the local supermarket and found to my delight that Messrs Morrisons also offered a collecting point for the aforesaid cards so they no longer take up space in the now rather tidy cupboard under the stairs. One more clear out there and there will be room for Harry Potter and owl.
One might ask why I do not simply recycle them. Alas, once more Fates fickle Yuletide finger has dealt me yet another bad hand of cards. The Oberbinfuhrer, in one of his diktats has commanded "No cards!" Apparently he doesn't like glitter...
On my last foray into the big city I purchased a pair of corduroy trousers from Messrs Marks & Spencer. Not the most trendy of emporiums but I am long past being "with it". Nowadays I am built more for comfort than speed and my wardrobe reflects this. One of the advantages of Marks & Sparks is that if you know your size you can bypass the perils of the changing room. I have often discovered that the flimsy curtain provided in place of a door is not quite ample enough to cover the opening. Add to that the embarrassment of bursting through the said curtain, having lost one's balance with one leg in the trousers and one leg out and it is a situation I prefer to avoid. It has never quite happened to me but I have had several near misses. I have more consideration for my fellow men than to subject them to the sight of a hopping Kojak in overcoat and underwear.
Having digressed once again I shall return to the nub of the matter. I was dismayed to find that the waistline measurement which had served me so well in the past no longer seemed adequate. I do not wish to cast aspersions in the direction of M&S but it may be that in these times of economic depression they have been forced into a less generous system of measuring. In order to exchange the meanly tailored garment another excursion into the metropolis of Preston was called for and I was also able to finally divest myself of a large bag of Christmas cards. For many years the local Post Office has kindly offered a collecting point for Christmas cards and so on Tuesday I laboured there with a large bag only to find that they had ceased this service because of collection problems in previous years. Naturally this was the day when my car was being serviced so having trudged there in the rain I had to trudge back with the damned things. Fortuitously on the way back from the big city I happened to call into the local supermarket and found to my delight that Messrs Morrisons also offered a collecting point for the aforesaid cards so they no longer take up space in the now rather tidy cupboard under the stairs. One more clear out there and there will be room for Harry Potter and owl.
One might ask why I do not simply recycle them. Alas, once more Fates fickle Yuletide finger has dealt me yet another bad hand of cards. The Oberbinfuhrer, in one of his diktats has commanded "No cards!" Apparently he doesn't like glitter...
Tuesday, 25 January 2011
Slightly Firefoxed and a Palava with Java
For some time now I have been frozen. Now this is not just the result of the current inclement weather conditions although they too have played their part, albeit on my person rather than my equipment. I refer of course to my IT equipment...
As a gentleman of a certain age I can, with ease, hark back to the early days of the desktop computer. Hard disks were small and floppys large and bendy. As a result, great care had to be taken not to waste bytes unnecessarily. One had to keep everything nice and tidy and delete everything you didn't need. This was known as housekeeping. Todays mobile phones contain much more memory space than the biggest desktop pcs in the days of yore and todays desktop computers have more disk space and memory than the early mainframe computer systems. It follows without saying that there is not quite the same urgency to be strict about housekeeping. Old habits die hard, especially in Chez Kojak and I pride myself in being ruthless in deleting files that are no longer needed and keeping my hard disk nice and tidy and performing regular disk cleanups and defrags like all good pc users ought to do. Despite this scrupulous attention my pc has been slowing up and even freezing with dismaying regularity. Although like my good self it is no longer (in IT terms) in the first flush of youth it has a long way to go before it goes to the digital geriatric home. Unlike it's owner it has ample memory and ought to be able to move at a fast lick of speed. I have tried various remedys but without success.
Today I was paid a pleasant social call by the Blessed Ian, pictured right - he of patio building fame. Never one to let a golden opportunity pass me by I called on his professional computer skills to help me solve this conundrum. Having previously checked that I had the latest version of everything known to man and my computer he suggested that I stray from the old familiar Internet Explorer and try another internet browser. Having lived through the dawn of these alternatives and heard wails of despair from early users I have previously shied away from sampling these upstarts but needs must when the data bit hits the fan. We settled on Mozilla Firefox as the better of the alternatives. This had always sounded rather too much like Godzilla or Aston Villa for my comfort but my anxiety was soothed by the fact that I could always heap opprobrium on Ian's head if things went awry. Firstly we performed a tidying up operation which included ensuring that only the most up to date versions of software were held on the pc. Apparently when Java updates are downloaded previous versions are not deleted and Ian opined that my always vigilant anti-virus software might be trying to check through each of these every time Java swung into use and this might be a cause of the lack of speed and/or the screen freezes. All trace of Java was expunged with a severity not witnessed since the Krakatoa cataclysm. Java was reborn anew, all bright and shiney. Firefox was downloaded and launched with some trepidation on my part. I have memories of the several near misses undergone by the Russian plane in the film of the same name. Much to my relief nothing was shot down in flames.
Although similar to the workings of the trusty old Microsoft browser there are a few subtle differences which I have not yet become accustomed to. Kojak is still slightly Firefoxed.
.
As a gentleman of a certain age I can, with ease, hark back to the early days of the desktop computer. Hard disks were small and floppys large and bendy. As a result, great care had to be taken not to waste bytes unnecessarily. One had to keep everything nice and tidy and delete everything you didn't need. This was known as housekeeping. Todays mobile phones contain much more memory space than the biggest desktop pcs in the days of yore and todays desktop computers have more disk space and memory than the early mainframe computer systems. It follows without saying that there is not quite the same urgency to be strict about housekeeping. Old habits die hard, especially in Chez Kojak and I pride myself in being ruthless in deleting files that are no longer needed and keeping my hard disk nice and tidy and performing regular disk cleanups and defrags like all good pc users ought to do. Despite this scrupulous attention my pc has been slowing up and even freezing with dismaying regularity. Although like my good self it is no longer (in IT terms) in the first flush of youth it has a long way to go before it goes to the digital geriatric home. Unlike it's owner it has ample memory and ought to be able to move at a fast lick of speed. I have tried various remedys but without success.
Today I was paid a pleasant social call by the Blessed Ian, pictured right - he of patio building fame. Never one to let a golden opportunity pass me by I called on his professional computer skills to help me solve this conundrum. Having previously checked that I had the latest version of everything known to man and my computer he suggested that I stray from the old familiar Internet Explorer and try another internet browser. Having lived through the dawn of these alternatives and heard wails of despair from early users I have previously shied away from sampling these upstarts but needs must when the data bit hits the fan. We settled on Mozilla Firefox as the better of the alternatives. This had always sounded rather too much like Godzilla or Aston Villa for my comfort but my anxiety was soothed by the fact that I could always heap opprobrium on Ian's head if things went awry. Firstly we performed a tidying up operation which included ensuring that only the most up to date versions of software were held on the pc. Apparently when Java updates are downloaded previous versions are not deleted and Ian opined that my always vigilant anti-virus software might be trying to check through each of these every time Java swung into use and this might be a cause of the lack of speed and/or the screen freezes. All trace of Java was expunged with a severity not witnessed since the Krakatoa cataclysm. Java was reborn anew, all bright and shiney. Firefox was downloaded and launched with some trepidation on my part. I have memories of the several near misses undergone by the Russian plane in the film of the same name. Much to my relief nothing was shot down in flames.
Although similar to the workings of the trusty old Microsoft browser there are a few subtle differences which I have not yet become accustomed to. Kojak is still slightly Firefoxed.
.
Sunday, 23 January 2011
Out in the Fog and Missed
Friday, 21 January 2011
Not Too Long in the Bluetooth
Contrary to everyone's expectations (including mine) the aged brain cells have not yet expired. Yesterday I reported a limited success with the new mobile phone. I have christened it the "Amazon" because there are large areas still unexplored and unknown to Kojak. I had made a small inroad - more a small inpath to be truthful - by taking 2 photos with it. My initial euphoria was quickly quashed on my return home when I discovered that the folded scrap of paper that purported to be the instructions proffered not one jot of information on what to do with the damned things once I'd taken them.
The Perils of the Big City and a Wateredownstones
Today has been a tad tiring. I had to go into the big city or Preston as it is commonly known. What remains of my mind can't quite accept the transition from a Lancashire ex-mill town to a metropolis. It must have cost the council a fortune to rename everything from buses to letterheads and signposts. I went to donate some of my meagre pension to contribute towards a leaving present for one of my ex-work colleagues who has decided to throw in the towel in the light of the latest swingeing cuts in staffing. A furtive handover meeting was arrranged in the shadows of the main door to the office building. Although the blissfully ignorant recipient was presumably working on the 9th floor, nervous glances were still darting around. Anxiety increased when another ex-workmate appeared in the doorway - it was beginning to look like a cabal was forming.
The shady dealing concluded I bade my farewells and proceeded on to my next objective. The Christmas present from middle brother this year was a book token. Now this was not so boring or "safe" as the name implies and in any case they apparently don't call them book tokens any more - they are now "Gift" tokens. This was much appreciated as most of the books lately purchased by yours truly are from one of the local charity shops. I have taken to using the establishment as a sort of lending library, purchasing the odd book and returning it for further resale. It has the advantage of supporting Barnardos and preventing a pile up of once only read books in Chez Kojak. True, the variety can be a bit sketchy as much depends on the reading habits of others but I have acquired one or two decent hard and paperbacks. Anyway, I digress yet again. I have a motley collection of Jane Austen novels, some more dog-eared than others and I spied, on the venerable Waterstones website a sumptuous hardback compendium of 7 Jane Austens including one that I had neither read nor, I'm ashamed to admit, heard of. I entered Messrs Waterstones bookshop in Preston, gift token clutched in hand and with an air of anticipation not felt since I anticipated the fine pints of ale I would consume at the Northern Symi Reunion in Keswick. Quel shock! Fate's Literary Fickle Finger had wielded her pen. Not only did the Preston City branch not stock the all-encompassing tome but their stock of Jane Austen was pretty scrappy. In fact I could not find even a single paperback novelette. Have Waterstones no pride?, no sense or sensibility? I am confident I looked in the right place and I am secure in my alphabet. Thoughts of Austen began to waver and a sliver of persuasion (sorry, I just could not resist that) crept in that perhaps another genre might be equally rewarding. I dabble in Science Fiction occasionally and thought that Isaac Asimov's Foundation Trilogy might be a suitable replacement. Not a hope! One rather minor paperback but not a hint of a paragraph from the first 3 novels. I have begun to think that Waterstones of Preston don't know their literary A's from their Northangers. Looking around the shop I was dismayed to see mostly popular paperbacks rather than the hardback variety. Perhaps they should be renamed Wateredownstones.
All this clumping about the big city was not without peril. Between taking evasive action to avoid mothers wielding baby buggies a la battering ram mode to almost leapfrogging over those who feel compelled to suddenly stop in busy doorways I was glad to reach the safety of the Kojakmobile. Even then my travails were not over. I had forsaken my free bus pass in favour of the car in order to combine my literary jaunt with an opportunity to stock up at a branch of Lidl conveniently situated on my way home. Perhaps too convenient as this is another shop where I invariably come out with much more than I intended to buy. There are only 2 types of shopping trolley there, large and even larger. A poor excuse I know but it's the only one I can come up with at short notice... except perhaps if I play the "green" card. It's much better for the ozone layer if I make fewer journeys and buy in bulk! Splendid! I'll use that one more frequently! Further ills assailed me in the shape of the dreaded roadworks. Blocking the only route home, unless I take to the river are major roadworks which, the notice proudly proclaims, will last for the next 15 months. 15 months! I'm sure the second runway at Manchester Airport was constructed in less time. Since the roadworks in question are confined to a traffic junction I cannot imagine why they should take so long.
My next port of call was to my friendly farmer for milk and eggs. He was, as usual, wearing a respectable coating of another bovine by-product and thus unfit to enter the dairy so it was self-service once again. Fortunately I had stocked up the car ashtray with coinage for such an event so the correct recompense was available. On my drive there I noticed that although the thick blanket of freezing fog had not lifted one iota all day it had produced some rather fetching side effects in the shape of frosted foliage. Naturally my camera was at home but I was inspired to emulate another blogger (you know who you are) and whip out my new mobile phone. Flushed with success I hurried home only to discover that, yes, you've guessed it, the miniscule instructions gave no hint that you could actually transfer the said images from phone to computer. There is a vague mention of something called Bluetooth but seemingly no software or guidance on how to do anything with it. As large parts of the mobile are still inacessible (to me at any rate) it may be Spring or Summer before they appear elsewhere... if at all...
The shady dealing concluded I bade my farewells and proceeded on to my next objective. The Christmas present from middle brother this year was a book token. Now this was not so boring or "safe" as the name implies and in any case they apparently don't call them book tokens any more - they are now "Gift" tokens. This was much appreciated as most of the books lately purchased by yours truly are from one of the local charity shops. I have taken to using the establishment as a sort of lending library, purchasing the odd book and returning it for further resale. It has the advantage of supporting Barnardos and preventing a pile up of once only read books in Chez Kojak. True, the variety can be a bit sketchy as much depends on the reading habits of others but I have acquired one or two decent hard and paperbacks. Anyway, I digress yet again. I have a motley collection of Jane Austen novels, some more dog-eared than others and I spied, on the venerable Waterstones website a sumptuous hardback compendium of 7 Jane Austens including one that I had neither read nor, I'm ashamed to admit, heard of. I entered Messrs Waterstones bookshop in Preston, gift token clutched in hand and with an air of anticipation not felt since I anticipated the fine pints of ale I would consume at the Northern Symi Reunion in Keswick. Quel shock! Fate's Literary Fickle Finger had wielded her pen. Not only did the Preston City branch not stock the all-encompassing tome but their stock of Jane Austen was pretty scrappy. In fact I could not find even a single paperback novelette. Have Waterstones no pride?, no sense or sensibility? I am confident I looked in the right place and I am secure in my alphabet. Thoughts of Austen began to waver and a sliver of persuasion (sorry, I just could not resist that) crept in that perhaps another genre might be equally rewarding. I dabble in Science Fiction occasionally and thought that Isaac Asimov's Foundation Trilogy might be a suitable replacement. Not a hope! One rather minor paperback but not a hint of a paragraph from the first 3 novels. I have begun to think that Waterstones of Preston don't know their literary A's from their Northangers. Looking around the shop I was dismayed to see mostly popular paperbacks rather than the hardback variety. Perhaps they should be renamed Wateredownstones.
All this clumping about the big city was not without peril. Between taking evasive action to avoid mothers wielding baby buggies a la battering ram mode to almost leapfrogging over those who feel compelled to suddenly stop in busy doorways I was glad to reach the safety of the Kojakmobile. Even then my travails were not over. I had forsaken my free bus pass in favour of the car in order to combine my literary jaunt with an opportunity to stock up at a branch of Lidl conveniently situated on my way home. Perhaps too convenient as this is another shop where I invariably come out with much more than I intended to buy. There are only 2 types of shopping trolley there, large and even larger. A poor excuse I know but it's the only one I can come up with at short notice... except perhaps if I play the "green" card. It's much better for the ozone layer if I make fewer journeys and buy in bulk! Splendid! I'll use that one more frequently! Further ills assailed me in the shape of the dreaded roadworks. Blocking the only route home, unless I take to the river are major roadworks which, the notice proudly proclaims, will last for the next 15 months. 15 months! I'm sure the second runway at Manchester Airport was constructed in less time. Since the roadworks in question are confined to a traffic junction I cannot imagine why they should take so long.
My next port of call was to my friendly farmer for milk and eggs. He was, as usual, wearing a respectable coating of another bovine by-product and thus unfit to enter the dairy so it was self-service once again. Fortunately I had stocked up the car ashtray with coinage for such an event so the correct recompense was available. On my drive there I noticed that although the thick blanket of freezing fog had not lifted one iota all day it had produced some rather fetching side effects in the shape of frosted foliage. Naturally my camera was at home but I was inspired to emulate another blogger (you know who you are) and whip out my new mobile phone. Flushed with success I hurried home only to discover that, yes, you've guessed it, the miniscule instructions gave no hint that you could actually transfer the said images from phone to computer. There is a vague mention of something called Bluetooth but seemingly no software or guidance on how to do anything with it. As large parts of the mobile are still inacessible (to me at any rate) it may be Spring or Summer before they appear elsewhere... if at all...
Thursday, 20 January 2011
An Uber Error, Go (Further) West Young(ish) Man - and Spend!
I must first plead guilty to an error. I have referred to bin personnel as Uberbinfuhrer and so on, downwards through the ranks. They should correctly be called Oberbin etc. You will perhaps excuse this freudian lapse in my judgement as "Uber" means "above" and those in charge of refuse collection seem to regard themselves as above us mere council tax paying mortals.
Monday was Evil Bin Day again. This week was recycling bin day which is always a source of even more stress than usual. Gentlemen of a certain age ought not to be subjected to this on a weekly basis. Having reluctantly left the warmth of a sprung edge divan with 4 drawers at the same time as the central heating kicked in I shivered my way downstairs and began the usual scramble to assemble the various bins, boxes and sacks and position them precisely by 7.30am as per the Oberbinfuhrer's diktat. Having accomplished that I readied myself in ambush. Now at this time of year this is no easy task as sunrise is somewhat later than it is in the summer months. Since I pay my electricity bills timeously and I am loath to sit in the dark, drawing back the curtains would give the Oberbinfuhrerherren a clear view of Kojak while I would have limited sight of them. I compromise by drawing back the curtains a little way, casting enough light so the outside eye can see that I am up and alert (to their eyes anyway) without indicating my whereabouts. By happy circumstance Chez Kojak is sited so I can espy, from my comfy workstation chair, the various Oberbinwagons as they reverse into my court. Depending on the noise level of whatever is on Breakfast Television News I can also hear the reversing alert - probably the only useful thing that has come out of Health & Safety legislation. I am thus aware of their several arrivals and ready to leap out and confront them should my bins stray. Anyway, I digress yet again. On Monday I had scarce retired to the slowly warming house when the first collection arrived, seconds after 7.30. I know that staff cuts in these difficult times mean that schedules are tight but this hour must be evilly designed to catch unwary and sleepy-eyed citizens before their wits are fully about them. I am unwilling to cast any scrap of mercy in the direction of the Sturmbinabteilung but I am considerate enough to realise that by missing a few early bins they stand more chance of achieving their targets. My slightly concealed presence has generally been sufficient to ensure the satisfactory return of my various recycling containers. Nonetheless I distinctly spotted yet another rapid readjustment in the intended trajectory of the green box once my presence had been clocked. Hostilities, dear reader, are far from over...
Being still assailed by the chesty remnants of a flu-type virus I have confined myself to Chez Kojak as far as possible. Hunger has forced me to make occasional forays into the outdoor world and so it was on Tuesday that I found myself, late in the day, running perilously short of milk. A trip to a nearby supermarket was thus demanded. Messrs Morrison & Co. have charitably kept their store open until 8pm so I wrapped up warmly and armed myself with both a shopping bag and alacrity as it was approaching that hour.The fickle finger of fate struck yet again as predictably the telephone rang. Now I am one of those persons who learned good manners, sometimes forcibly, at my mother's knee and I cannot lightly ignore a telephone call unless circumstances render it physically impossible. So it was that my arrival at Chez Morrison & Co's emporium coincided with the store closure. Muttering curses and heaping opprobrium on the feckless phone caller I reflected that all was not lost as there was a small late opening shop in the village. I had of course underestimated Fate's fickle digit. The vengeful harpy had ordained that there was not a single place to park my car within a bus ride of the shop. Being a law-abiding person I choose to ignore the local Highway Code which appears to indicate that you can park on pavements, street corners, double yellow lines and even on one occasion, a pedestrian crossing as long as you (a) put on your hazard lights and/or (b) don't get caught. And so it was that I had to go even further west, almost to the shores of the Irish Sea to visit Mr Tesco's all-night establishment. Parking places abound there, the only risk being not able to remember where you parked in the first place. I have to admit to being suitably embarrassed there on more than one occasion. I have long since learned that confining myself to a shopping basket is not a good idea as it almost always guarantees that I will unexpectedly require several essential and very heavy purchases that I cannot possibly leave for another day. It follows that a shopping trolley demands a substantial load. And that, dear reader, is how a 2 litre carton of milk cost me over £26.
Monday was Evil Bin Day again. This week was recycling bin day which is always a source of even more stress than usual. Gentlemen of a certain age ought not to be subjected to this on a weekly basis. Having reluctantly left the warmth of a sprung edge divan with 4 drawers at the same time as the central heating kicked in I shivered my way downstairs and began the usual scramble to assemble the various bins, boxes and sacks and position them precisely by 7.30am as per the Oberbinfuhrer's diktat. Having accomplished that I readied myself in ambush. Now at this time of year this is no easy task as sunrise is somewhat later than it is in the summer months. Since I pay my electricity bills timeously and I am loath to sit in the dark, drawing back the curtains would give the Oberbinfuhrerherren a clear view of Kojak while I would have limited sight of them. I compromise by drawing back the curtains a little way, casting enough light so the outside eye can see that I am up and alert (to their eyes anyway) without indicating my whereabouts. By happy circumstance Chez Kojak is sited so I can espy, from my comfy workstation chair, the various Oberbinwagons as they reverse into my court. Depending on the noise level of whatever is on Breakfast Television News I can also hear the reversing alert - probably the only useful thing that has come out of Health & Safety legislation. I am thus aware of their several arrivals and ready to leap out and confront them should my bins stray. Anyway, I digress yet again. On Monday I had scarce retired to the slowly warming house when the first collection arrived, seconds after 7.30. I know that staff cuts in these difficult times mean that schedules are tight but this hour must be evilly designed to catch unwary and sleepy-eyed citizens before their wits are fully about them. I am unwilling to cast any scrap of mercy in the direction of the Sturmbinabteilung but I am considerate enough to realise that by missing a few early bins they stand more chance of achieving their targets. My slightly concealed presence has generally been sufficient to ensure the satisfactory return of my various recycling containers. Nonetheless I distinctly spotted yet another rapid readjustment in the intended trajectory of the green box once my presence had been clocked. Hostilities, dear reader, are far from over...
Being still assailed by the chesty remnants of a flu-type virus I have confined myself to Chez Kojak as far as possible. Hunger has forced me to make occasional forays into the outdoor world and so it was on Tuesday that I found myself, late in the day, running perilously short of milk. A trip to a nearby supermarket was thus demanded. Messrs Morrison & Co. have charitably kept their store open until 8pm so I wrapped up warmly and armed myself with both a shopping bag and alacrity as it was approaching that hour.The fickle finger of fate struck yet again as predictably the telephone rang. Now I am one of those persons who learned good manners, sometimes forcibly, at my mother's knee and I cannot lightly ignore a telephone call unless circumstances render it physically impossible. So it was that my arrival at Chez Morrison & Co's emporium coincided with the store closure. Muttering curses and heaping opprobrium on the feckless phone caller I reflected that all was not lost as there was a small late opening shop in the village. I had of course underestimated Fate's fickle digit. The vengeful harpy had ordained that there was not a single place to park my car within a bus ride of the shop. Being a law-abiding person I choose to ignore the local Highway Code which appears to indicate that you can park on pavements, street corners, double yellow lines and even on one occasion, a pedestrian crossing as long as you (a) put on your hazard lights and/or (b) don't get caught. And so it was that I had to go even further west, almost to the shores of the Irish Sea to visit Mr Tesco's all-night establishment. Parking places abound there, the only risk being not able to remember where you parked in the first place. I have to admit to being suitably embarrassed there on more than one occasion. I have long since learned that confining myself to a shopping basket is not a good idea as it almost always guarantees that I will unexpectedly require several essential and very heavy purchases that I cannot possibly leave for another day. It follows that a shopping trolley demands a substantial load. And that, dear reader, is how a 2 litre carton of milk cost me over £26.
Wednesday, 12 January 2011
A New Year, a New Title and For Whom the Bell didn't Toll
I was perusing previous blogs, looking for something I thought I'd mentioned when it occurred to me that the main title of the blog didn't reflect the somewhat harassed hand of cards that life seems to have dealt me lately. I have amended it but with the hope that at some time in the near future I will feel confident to change it back to the more hassle free one.
This morning was not a bin day. Indeed, it was a day of rest before I girded up my loins to do battle with DHL mobile phone delivery services on Wednesday... or so I thought. Yes, dear reader, once again the fickle phone finger of fate had hovered over Chez Kojak and stabbed down piercing my postcode to the heart. I was upstairs at the time, admiring the sprung edge divan in passing when I thought I heard a faint noise which just might have been a gentle tap on my double-glazed front door. Opening the door after the usual scrabble for keys I spied a DHL van and glimpsed the rear end of the driver disappearing round the far side of it. Not the most welcome sight to greet one's first step outside but having passed "official" middle age I really should refrain from commenting on anyone else's "spread". I managed to attract the driver's attention before he had time to flee but also before I had time to think up a cutting sermon about inaudible door tapping when there is a perfectly good doorbell right in front of your eyes. Taken by surprise I also forgot the planned diatribe along the lines of "Where the hell were you yesterday and why aren't you delivering this tomorrow as planned?" Yes, dear reader, it was the new mobile phone. I lamely mumbled something like "This should have been here yesterday" and allowed him to escape. Naturally, he'd hardly gone out of sight before I remembered all the things I should have said which would have reduced him to a tearful and quivering amoebic heap.
Fate had not finished with me by any means. After eagerly ripping the envelope open and savouring the excitement that only post-Christmas presents can bring I put the battery on to charge and settled down to read the instructions. Now I know that we are in the middle of an economic depression and I'm fully aware that manufacturers are cutting costs along with the rest of us. I don't expect a leather bound folio of best quality vellum but I was a tad disconcerted at the folded scrap of paper which fluttered to the floor... and rightly so. On the face of it the "manual", what there was of it, seemed ok if a little sparce. Once the battery was charged and inserted the true nature of the beast emerged. On the website, the colour of the opened phone seemed attractive and different but I soon came to realise that red did indeed spell danger. Now all new and different phones present a certain initial challenge except perhaps to 10 year olds. In my youth, if you were fortunate you were born with a silver spoon in your mouth. Now it seems that every infant emerges into the world already conversant with the latest WAP, MP3, GPRS, MBE, OBE etc. Although by mobile phone standards I am ancient in years I can still achieve a reasonable level of competence sufficient to allow me to master the basics by reading the manual. This "manual" could have been folded and fitted quite nicely into the window of one of those charm bracelet trinkets that were so popular when I was... well... a few years ago. The menus were laid out quite clearly. What was not laid out clearly, in fact not laid out at all was how to program those menus to appear in the first place. I was actually at the point of phoning the helpline and complaining that the phone was faulty before a chance press of a key led me down a complicated and lengthy path to eventually get the phone into some semblance of a workable instrument. I am sure that there is much more to be done but mental fatigue has set in for tonight at any rate. To quote a 007 Bond film, tomorrow is another day... or maybe I'll leave it until the day after....
This morning was not a bin day. Indeed, it was a day of rest before I girded up my loins to do battle with DHL mobile phone delivery services on Wednesday... or so I thought. Yes, dear reader, once again the fickle phone finger of fate had hovered over Chez Kojak and stabbed down piercing my postcode to the heart. I was upstairs at the time, admiring the sprung edge divan in passing when I thought I heard a faint noise which just might have been a gentle tap on my double-glazed front door. Opening the door after the usual scrabble for keys I spied a DHL van and glimpsed the rear end of the driver disappearing round the far side of it. Not the most welcome sight to greet one's first step outside but having passed "official" middle age I really should refrain from commenting on anyone else's "spread". I managed to attract the driver's attention before he had time to flee but also before I had time to think up a cutting sermon about inaudible door tapping when there is a perfectly good doorbell right in front of your eyes. Taken by surprise I also forgot the planned diatribe along the lines of "Where the hell were you yesterday and why aren't you delivering this tomorrow as planned?" Yes, dear reader, it was the new mobile phone. I lamely mumbled something like "This should have been here yesterday" and allowed him to escape. Naturally, he'd hardly gone out of sight before I remembered all the things I should have said which would have reduced him to a tearful and quivering amoebic heap.
Tuesday, 11 January 2011
Come In Number 6, a Trumpet Involuntary and The Fickle Phone Finger of Fate
ual gift, each one contained a hat, a unique sticky backed number and a corresponding numbered miniature plastic trumpet thingy. Each trumpet was of a different size and thus played a different note. A music score was thoughtfully provided which in theory, using a cunning system of annotation, enabled us to play several well known Christmas carols. Numbers were affixed to hats, the maestro raised her baton and the orchestra assumed a state of readiness to play. Or we should have been ready except for the discovery that trumpet number 5 played the same note as trumpet number 6. Yuletide irony
being what it was these same two trumpets figured prominently in every opus. Undaunted and fortified by much wine we brushed aside this minor inconvenience and launched into our first musical item. The launching of HMS O Little Town of Bethlehem bore a startling resemblence to that of the Titanic - it sank on it's maiden voyage. Recriminations were immediate. The wooden spoon... er... I mean baton was waved too wildly; the maestro was not following the score; the orchestra was not following the maestro. This last insult brought howls of protest from the musicians - we WERE playing the right notes, just not necessarily in the right order. Confusion arose between trumpets 5 and 6. Cries of "come in number 6" evinced the retort that I had "come in", I just sounded the same as trumpet number 5. Several more carols were attempted, each one bearing no similarity to the well-loved familiar ones which delight us at this time of year. Trumpet number 5, despairing of the chaos retired to the kitchen for a smoke leaving me manfully trying to play both. Critics might sneer that this was no hardship since trumpets 5 and 6 produced the same note. It should be born in mind that I was bravely labouring on with a poorly chest. Kojak was out of breath. Those who know me well will no doubt comment that this is not a condition usually attributed to moi!Today saw my first encounter in the year of Our Lord 2011 with the evil Oberbinfuhrerherren. It was a grey day in more ways than one, the sky was overcast and it was raining. It was also grey bin day which meant I had to prise my still ailing carcase from a very appealing sprung edge divan bed in the middle of the night to place my bin as per "das instruktions" before 7.30am. Such an ungodly start to a Monday is quite rightly to be loathed by a retired gentleman but the justifiable indignation was eased because I anticipated a welcome delivery. I had decided to treat myself to a nice little post-Christmas present of a new mobile phone. I have two mobile phones, one for England and one for Greece. The Greek phone is an old appliance from the days when I graced Orange with my custom and received a yearly upgrade. Although it has the benefit of a loud ringing tone (useful for gentlemen of a certain age), the battery has also aged along with it's owner. Espying a very reasonably priced flip phone advertised by my current mobile phone SIM provider I ordered it and was advised that the delivery would take place today. Although still feeling under the weather from the near fatal chest infection my spirits were further lightened by the Uberbinfuhrerherren replacing my bin precisely where I had positioned it. I suspect that they had simply lifted out the neatly tied bin bag but let's not be too ungracious about the matter. I settled back in a good if chesty humour to await delivery of the new phone. How easily can one's hopes be dashed! The fickle phone finger of fate jabbed me into despair. Not only did the phone not arrive but, adding insult to injury I received a text message alleging that the delivery person, may he or she rot in hell, had called (untrue) but had left a card (even more untrue) asking me to phone to make arrangements for a new delivery time. Just where he she or it called and left the card remains a mystery but it certainly was not at Chez Kojak! Further outrage was heaped upon my sickly countenance when I was informed that a new delivery could not be arranged for another 2 days. That is, of course, always provided that they have the wit to locate my abode!
Thursday, 6 January 2011
Christmas Has Come and Kojak Has Got Fat
I spent a quieter Christmas & New Year than usual. On Boxing Day I began to feel some tightness around the chest. This was not due to over-grazing on turkey and Mr Fortnums excellent Christmas Pud as the following day I got out of bed and almost immediately had to get back in again. Pyjamas, a thick toweling dressing gown and 2 duvets on the bed still left me alternatively shivering and sweating. Kojak was not well for several days. New Year was a very quiet affair as I was still feeling under the weather. A glass of wine at midnight and bed shortly after. I finally managed to catch up with friends the following Monday and several pints of ale restored my spirits.
My sainted sister is of the school of thought that anyone with an ailment needs feeding up so I have returned home with a waistband significantly tighter than it was before my excursion up north. A largely uneventful journey back with thankfully only a brief flurry of sleet and the usual idiots speeding through it. My early exit before Christmas has also resulted in an very large pile of Christmas cards to open and read today, which coincidently is Twelfth Night so at least I don't have to stick them up on the walls.
My sainted sister is of the school of thought that anyone with an ailment needs feeding up so I have returned home with a waistband significantly tighter than it was before my excursion up north. A largely uneventful journey back with thankfully only a brief flurry of sleet and the usual idiots speeding through it. My early exit before Christmas has also resulted in an very large pile of Christmas cards to open and read today, which coincidently is Twelfth Night so at least I don't have to stick them up on the walls.
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