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.

Hot, Spicy, Topless and a Bum Deal from a Bin Man

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.

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.

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?

The Lytham Windmill still minus 2 of it's sails after last autumn's gales

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.  
 

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...

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. 

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