Come In Number 6, a Trumpet Involuntary and The Fickle Phone Finger of Fate

I may have mentioned in a previous blog that I had been banjaxed by a near fatal chest infection over the festive season. Serious illness is not something we men generally acknowledge, we usually just bear it stoically and pass it off with a shrug. Despite sensing the grim reaper peering over my shoulder I made a courageous effort to join in the Christmas festivities. This year it was my sister's turn to host the Boxing Day lunch and she had obtained some rather special Christmas crackers. Instead of the usual 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!