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...

A Paper Chase, Latex Clothing and the Fridge Has Landed

Monday morning dawned grey, wet and cold. A fitting scene for yet another bi-weekly guerilla war with the Green Oberbinfuhrerherren. Still fatigued after my late night Mrs Mopp session with the kitchen floor I was reluctant to prise my carcase off the 4 drawer sprung edge divan. The morning, however, called for even greater urgency. I not only had to have all bins, boxes and sacks in precise position to comply with the 07.30hrs diktat but I also had to be showered and ready for 8am. It was fridge freezer day and as informed by the polite email the delivery could take place at any moment between 8am and 6pm.  As a gentleman of a certain age, I have, in my time, had many similar notifications and I can truthfully assert that not once have I been favoured by the first delivery of the day.  Sods law of course dictates that the very first time I push what little luck I have, the doorbell will ring while I am performing my morning ablutions and I will answer the door dripping wet only to see the tail end of the goods carrier disappearing round the corner. I also had an urgent and early phone call to make. By some mischance (I will call it a senior moment) when arranging the delivery date I had completely forgotten that I also had a physiotherapy appointment at the local Medical Centre. Now I normally inscribe such details on the calendar as soon as I arrive home from the previous session but for some reason this had not happened. I did not want to cancel the appointment unnecessarily because getting another would mean certainly postponing treatment for at least another week so in an effort to ascertain an approximate delivery time I phoned Customer Services. There really ought to be a lawsuit under the Trades Descriptions Act because all too often there is very little service about it. It was while my attention was diverted by the complex and automated telephone question and answer service that the evil binherren seized their chance! The accuracy of the thrown box could not have been faulted. True, it did come to rest within the bounds of Chez Kojak but in doing so my carefully placed sack of paper received a broadside.  The sack, dutifully folded as per the Oberbinfuhrer's edict to keep the contents safe was dealt a mortal blow. A substantial amount of finely shredded paper poured out like a torrent of lifeblood and spread out over my path. A rather futile paperchase ensued which was substantially undermined by frequent gusts of wind...

Fuming over the binherren's victory I returned to the battle with Customer Services. After pressing almost every button on my telephone I finally managed to speak to a living being but with limited success. I extracted a promise that I would receive a phone call 1 hour before delivery of the fridge freezer.  Feeling only slightly comforted I set off for my physiotherapy appointment. My physio, the lovely Lynn is married to my doctor so it's nice to keep these things in the family.  She is treating me for pain in both hands and wrists. This may be residual tendonitis from my exertions in patio building last year. As Lynn's husband and my doctor reminded me several times, I am of a certain age and ailments of the elderly take longer to heal. Lynn had given me a wrist brace for nocturnal use but I acquired an allergy to it and was unable to use it without a protective bandage. Lynn hoped that I did not possess any ...er... latex garments. I opined that I couldn't get them on over my wooden leg and the appointment dissolved into hysteria. Still not quite made easy by the lack of a warning telephone call I hurriedly made my way home and found, to my relief that there were no signs of an abandoned delivery. There were, however, still signs of the evil binherren's handiwork despite my attempts to clear up the carnage wrought by his flying box bowling. Making a mental note that revenge is a dish best served cold, preferably under concrete, I made further attempts to remove the remnants of finely cross cut shredded paper from my garden and by now, my neighbours.

The afternoon went on.... and on and by 5.30pm I accepted that the 6pm deadline for delivery was not going to be met. I resumed my telephone button pressing and after the normal struggle I succeeded in speaking to a live person. Not, of course the same live person I had spoken to previously. In hindsight I ought to have made a recording of my query as it would have saved much time and oxygen. Informed that the delivery persons often ran late but would continue their round I sighed and waited... and waited. Since the kitchen in Chez Kojak is of a small size I could not begin to prepare a meal, nor, with an uncertain delivery time would it have been sensible to try and consume one. Eventually at 7pm the promised phone call came and a sizeable lorry arrived 15 minutes later. Apparently the lorry had sustained a puncture and when the spare wheel finally arrived it was the wrong size. Now the ordering process helpfully gave one a selection of delivery dates. I had not chosen the first available date as it coincided with Friday's leaving celebration. Kojak had personally selected the very day when the lorry would have a puncture and the wrong spare wheel had been provided. Fate's icy fickle finger had struck once more... The delivery men helpfully unpacked the beast, plugged it in and carefully backed it into the niche prepared for it. It was only when I retrieved the manual from inside the now rapidly cooling fridge that I realised that all the bits of restraining sticky backed tape and polystyrene padding around the shelves ought to have been removed prior to operating. Now the electric socket was located near the floor behind the appliance and I was now on my own. As the interior, shelving etc. also needed cleaning there followed a mighty scramble to remove all such items, wipe down the rapidly cooling interior and wash all the shelving etc. By the time this was done it was possible to transfer foodstuffs from old fridge to new and by the time this was effected I was able to transfer frozen foodstuffs.

The fridge had landed, Kojak was hungry and dinner was a bacon sandwich at 10pm... The fridge freezer doors were also the wrong way round but I simply could not begin to contemplate that battle. 

Fuddled by Ruddles and a Fridge Too Far

On Friday evening I attended the leaving "do" of yet another ex-work colleague who has tired of the constant round of staff cuts and re-applying for her job. The meeting point for this and in fact for almost every leaving occasion was in licensed premises next door to the Job Centre, an appropriate site for such celebrations. A fine range of ales was available and we all availed ourselves in varying quantities. By the end of the evening one or two were fuddled, whether by Ruddles Best Bitter or other  liquors. We called at two other ale houses and suddenly it was time to hurry for the last train. Naturally it was persisting down by this time so it was a rather damp Kojak who eventually made his way home.

The next day, Friday's bumpy ride on public transport took it's toll on my neck & shoulder so very little was done once I'd managed to move my ageing carcase without too much pain. My previous search for a new fridge freezer having concluded with a hurried internet purchase there was a lot which should have been done as the new appliance was arriving the following Monday. The standard delivery times seem to be between 8am and 6pm regardless of where one purchases anything so today I had to set to and prepare a space. I had the current fridge & freezer mounted on an ingenious wheeled contraption which technically allowed me to move the fridge & freezer out when it became absolutely necessary to  attack the horrors that tend to accumulate behind it. My sainted friend Ian (he of the patio building saga) once again agreed to come to my aid, this time to move the old freezer and the precariously balanced fridge on top of it.  Fortunately or unfortunately as the case may be, Chez Kojak is open plan on the ground floor. So now I have a fridge and freezer squatting in front of the patio doors together with various items of kitchen paraphernalia, the kitchen floor is clearer and cleaner than it's been for some considerable time and the dining table has got me pinned to the computer keyboard. In contrast, a pristine space awaits the delivery of the new  cold storage machine. Due to the rather urgent requirement of a replacement I had no time to empty the freezer of it's contents so I'm stuck with the current arrangement until I can transfer the frozen goods.  Once again Fate's fickle frozen finger has blessed me, this time with an unseasonal period of warmish weather.  Others seem to be able to buy a fridge without much trouble but I fear that I have typically gone a fridge too far.

Tunnel Vision, a Dusty Spectacle and First Blood

Yesterday I was polishing my spectacles. For those of you with less than pure minds this does not mean I was risking blindness not does it refer to the old joke about the man in the unisex hairdressers shop. I am awash with spectacles and their cases. Regular readers will know that I am a "just in case" man. I carry on an inherited trait of my fathers by keeping things "just in case"


From time to time I make an effort to downsize my hoards of this ,that and the other and in this instance, if you will pardon the pun, my eye was drawn to my spectacles.  I am rather short-sighted, in other words, blind as a bat without them so I have always kept a spare pair in case of accidents. I say always, but this really had it's seeds in an incident near Rugby involving a canal tunnel and a sack of potatoes. Dear reader, ready yourself for another one of my long digressions  but it is essential to the tale. Those familiar with narrowboats and canals will know that on the outskirts of Rugby there is a canal tunnel famed for being a mile long and where the water is unusually deep, about 8ft. When I mention that I am 5ft 9ins tall you will begin to catch the drift of my tale. For many years a group of friends and I used to enjoy a weeks holiday on the English canals aboard a narrowboat. As befits todays society of equality all tasks aboard were shared equally between the sexes. This included cooking. Indeed I can say that in our "crew" the men outperformed the fairer sex in the culinary arts. And so it was that in the middle of this dark, deep tunnel I emerged onto the stern of the narrowboat to obtain some potatoes from the sack that we kept there. Now there was not much room on the stern and steering in a canal tunnel requires great precision and an uninterrupted view as there are usually only a few inches to spare at either side. One moment I was crouching in front of the helmsman holding a bicycle lamp in one hand and a King Edward in the other and the next I was in the canal, weighed down by layers of sweaters and derriboots. By some miracle I had managed to hold onto the bicycle lamp and by a fortuitous stroke of luck it was still working. Those on the barge anxiously looking back saw an unearthly underwater glow and then, rising from the depths, not Excalibur but Kojak doing an impression of the Statue of Liberty. The torch, my derriboots and myself were fished from the water but my spectacles remain to this day, half a mile into the Blisworth tunnel under 8 feet of water. One of the ladies kindly lent me her reading specs which gave me some semblance of vision but the styles of that time, the early 1980s, led the more unkind members of the crew to liken me to Marjory Proops. I recall the incident as Kojak's tunnel vision.


Since that day I have always ensured that whenever I got a new pair of spectacles I have relegated the previous ones to the position of backup. In theory, older pairs should have been discarded but I am, of course, a "just in case" man. On a previous visit to my local doctors surgery I espied a notice stating that the local Lions Club needed old pairs of specs which would be graded and used to provide charitable eyesight to third world persons. Scrabbling in the "just in case" drawer I unearthed a sizeable cache of old pairs which needed not only dusting off but rather embarrassingly, a good scrub prior to donation.

Yesterday I had to return to the surgery for one of those cholesterol tests which required a blood sample. Now Kojak's arteries are not heavily clogged but on my last yearly test the level was slightly high. Nothing to worry about but as part of the NHS preventative mission they slapped me on Statins so this latest test was to see if I was behaving myself and if the Statins were working. Irritatingly this was a fasting blood test which meant I was nil by mouth from the previous evening. H2o was allowed but nothing else until after the 9.30 am blood was drawn. Now I like a decent meal and, as an ex-civil servant I am more than partial to a nice cup of tea so I ate later than usual and as the 10pm deadline approached I was furiously swigging tea. Being a gentleman of a certain age this naturally resulted in more than the usual nocturnal visits to the bathroom. It was a rather sleepy Kojak who arrived at the surgery for his appointment with Dana, the nurse who was to extract my lifeblood. Fortunately she did not regale me with a rendition of the winning Eurovision Song Contest entry from Ireland but instead complimented me on my "nice visible veins".  Having been a blood donor since pre-history I've always been grateful for my visible veins as they have, with one or two exceptions, saved me from repeated stabbings and nasty bruises up my arm. One never knows whether they are joking so I refrained from commenting on the murmered "just a small prick" - as indeed it was. It was only afterwards when I praised her for the ease of the procedure that she admitted to being very nervous as it was the first time she had taken blood...

A Frost Free Reception and the Inconvenience of a Comet

For several days now I have been the subject of a frosty reception. Not from you, dear reader(s) for I bask in the glow of the odd words of interest and encouragement that trickle my way. Nor from the weather, inclement as it has been. I refer to matters refrigerant. Some days ago I noticed with concern that things were not quite as cold as they ought to be. Although nothing was approaching room temperature I nonetheless was a tad worried that the relative ambience in the fridge environment needed to be addressed. I seldom have to adjust the thermostatic dial even in summer so I increased the setting by a very small smidgeon. My euphoria at the resulting cool milk on my morning oats was short-lived when I discovered that my evening carrots and other constituents of my 5 a day healthy portions had succumbed to a rather bad dose of frostbite. Delicate tinkering with the flighty dial only succeeded in a wilder fluctuation in temperature than day and night in the Sahara Desert. 

Now the fridge along with it's matching freezer was an inheritance from my late mother. They had both stood my parents in good stead for many a long year and had served me faithfully for many years more. I had assumed, as one does, that the pair would carry on indefinitely since until now they had both been trouble free. True, they were a bit worn around the edges like myself but unlike me they had shown no sign of the odd component wearing out. With a heavy heart and a soon to be lighter bank balance I set about finding replacements. The kitchen in Chez Kojak is on the small side and the pair had had to be mounted one above the other a la fridge freezer style. I contemplated saving money by only purchasing a fridge but immediately discounted this as the replacement couldn't approach a match with the freezer and would stand out like a sore thumb. There was also a nagging doubt in my mind that if the aged fridge was feeling the chill of approaching death then the freezer would soon breath it's hoary last.

For the last couple of days I have been googling rather a lot. Not the astonished look kind of google but the internet variety. I thought I would use the ether to save some time and footwork in narrowing down my search for a likely replacement. In my search I came upon some surprising facts about the jargon used in serial numbers. I was relieved to find that the letters "FFS" stood for Frost Free Silver and not the more vulgar expletive commonly used by the hoi-polloi. Yesterday I had an appointment with the local surgery physiotherapist and continued on to my friendly farmer for milk & eggs. As usual they were occupied, this time with their tea break so they indicated that I should serve myself. I am now quite familiar with the dairy, the cold store and the tin for the money. I have even been in the entrance to the milking shed. One wonders where it will end. I would find milking the cows quite interesting but I draw the line at mucking out the cow byre.


As I was going to be out and about I had decided to continue on to a nearby retail park to suss out their refrigeration sections. I had armed myself with details of some likely models and was anxious to see them in the flesh. My first visit  was to Comet as the internet search had suggested one or two likely models. After a long and not very fruitful prowl around the ranks of freezers I became conscious of a problem that was becoming more urgent by the minute. Now as you may know, I am a gentleman of a certain age and this occasionally brings with it a certain problem. I take care to alleviate this before leaving Chez Kojak but it does reappear from time to time. Glancing around I was reminded of another fact of life. When you are in a commercial establishment and merely looking round you are continually bothered by assistants asking if you "need any help sir?"  When you actually want some attention there is seldom anyone within sight. And so it was. I persevered for several minutes more but my attention to fridge freezers began to waver. Spotting a gentleman asistant nearer to my age than most I asked him where the conveniences were located. To my consternation he replied that there wasn't one for the public and helpfully added to my problem by saying that the nearest one was in a supermarket about a quarter of a mile away. Now the retail park was not a small one, nor were the various shops in it tiny. I'd have thought that shops of that size would provide more facilities for the public and for gentlemen of a certain age in particular. Fifteen minutes later and clutching a bag of flour as a guilt purchase I emerged from Messrs Morrisons a much relieved Kojak. As I drove home I wondered if I was the only person to have been inconvenienced by a Comet. Did this happen to Mr Halle?

A Surfeit of Beef, Feeling Needled and Bad for the Blood Pressure

Last night was rather uncomfortable. I cannot point the blame for this in the direction of anyone else but myself. Following my visit to the garden centre at the weekend I decided to make some small inroad into the freezer which was beginning to  strain at the seams. In this it sadly coordinated with my waistline.  I had purchased a large pack of excellent lean beef. This was conveniently sub-divided into portions which were the precise size for the making of a steak pie. My friend Margs had arrived to transport us to the garden centre and as usual came laden with gifts, mine being a Panettone loaf. Last night's menu was therefore set as steak pie and bread & butter pudding made with the panettone. The preparation was somehow delayed so it was rather later than usual when I ate. I cannot quite achieve my mother's touch with the pastry crust but it is rather good if I say so myself. Time and pie crust wait for no man however so, late as it was,  it had to be eaten as had the pudding, served as was mandatory, with lashings of custard.  Shortly after this my eldest brother phoned while I was up to the armpits in the washing up bowl. I took some delight in hearing him salivate over the phone as I described the meal. A very long time ago when we were younger we used to fight over the same pie for the "underground". This was the part of the pastry crust which was underneath and had soaked up the gravy. I confess to still enjoying this bit to the present day. A consequence of this late repast and perhaps divine retribution for tempting brother's tastebuds into overdrive was that I spent a troubled night. Instead of sleeping soundly in the 4 drawer sprung edge divan my slumbers were disturbed by that overfull feeling which occurs when you have stuffed your face rather too well for nocturnal comfort.

This morning I had an appointment at the surgery for one of those annual cardio-vascular tests that they proffer to gentlemen (and ladies) of a certain age. Once again Fate's fickle finger had directed that that the apple I picked out of the barrel of appointment times was an early one. The earliest one in fact,  at 8.30am. I should be used to being first as innoculations at school were always done in alphabetical order, boys first. The only advantage to this Alpha sorting order was my satisfaction in staggering out of the room clutching my arm and groaning in fake terrible pain.... I had the doubtful privilege of always being first in line for polio, smallpox and TB jabs. Now these were not with the miniscule needles of today. In Kojak's youth the hypodermic needles were more like ladies hatpins of the Edwardian era. If you are still unsure of the size I would recommend watching the BBC TV Antiques Roadshow programme. At this point you will permit me one of my small digressions. Injections, as a whole have never bothered me. As a small child at junior school we were all given a series of injections against polio. I can remember being unperturbed when one of the girls fainted at the size of the needle. The nurse about to administer mine had to rush to assist. As she had already harpooned me with the syringe she told me to "hold that for a minute" while she went to the aid of the softie girl. Now in those days, dear reader, we always obeyed official authority and so I dutifully stood there holding the needle in my arm until her return. The only time I have felt a tad unsure about an injection was shortly after my relocation to London back in the 1970s. I registered with a nearby doctor and needed a typhoid and cholera injection prior to a Spanish holiday. The doctor was a locum and I had brought the serum with me having had the first part of the injection back in Lincolnshire. Kojak had managed to time a two-part holiday injection to span a career transfer.  I began to have doubts about the doctor's experience when it became obvious that he had never heard of this two-part jab. A smidgeon of anxiety crept in when he asked me how much he should inject. Judging by the resulting crater in my arm he clearly thought it was better to give me too much rather than too little.

That "digress" was rather longer than usual but you will be relieved to know that I am now returning to the present day. Thursday is market day in Kirkham so I arrived in good time. In such good time that I was there before most of the staff. The appointment followed the usual procedure, "Still smoking?"... "yes!"  "Sample" dutifully handed over and pronounced normal. Blood pressure checked and also found to be normal. The sister cheerfully announced that they would do the usual blood test and promptly made yet another appointment for next week. As the blood test is a regular thing, with a little commonsense it could have been done while I was there saving me time and the Medical Centre another appointment. I left the surgery with my blood pressure rather higher than it had been on arrival.