Author: Alex

Puppy Explosion

On By AlexIn Other stuff3 Comments

This is not a lazy metaphor for a primed four leg canine revoking it’s UXB status at the epicentre of our family. No, it perfectly describes the scene awaiting our 6:30am arrival in a kitchen full of frantic hound, and the aftermath of an incident which channel 5 would title “When stomachs go bad“.

It was hard to see where the sick stopped and the dog started, as the hoovermurf* showed his appreciation by smearing his barf stained flanks against my mostly bare flesh. Cold sick delivered by mad twirling dog is not something I ever wish to repeat at 6:30 in the morning. Or, to be more precise, ever.

Having removed excited pup, puke dripping cage and a sleeping mat that was now merely a repository for everything dog-voided, we found exactly where the sick stopped. Obviously the chunder was well represented in a blast zone around his cage, but to find it sprayed half way up the wall and splattered on an innocent pan some five foot distant came as an eyebrow raising surprise.

I will admit that my recent joy of finally crossing the threshold of dog ownership was slightly tempered by washing down a shivering puppy in the pissing rain, clothed only in a sick stained dressing gown. Still at the other end of the shitty stick was Carol armed with only a mop, bucket and nose peg to reclaim a room which resembled the arse end of some particularly hard core squatters.

You can’t blame the dog of course. Well you can, but I guess he wasn’t too thrilled to be sleeping in his own excrement either. And he was properly ill, as was demonstrated by a full on barf-athon which lasted until we saw first blood and then the emergency vet. To prove he wasn’t kidding, he was sick on her as well which provoked a needle full of antibiotics and a bill within a couple of beers of three digits.

I was properly worried for a while. Remember when your kids were babies where the default state of mild terror swerves between a conviction that all this crying must mean meningitis, and holding a mirror under their nose to check they’re still breathing once they’re finally silent?

It’s like that only with more barking although baby shit is definitely smellier than dog poo. No it is, try it for yourself if you don’t believe me. The problem with small mammals is they’re basically a finely balanced chemical reaction suspended in an open ended tube. And once you start chucking duckweed, socks, small stones and grass into that combusion chamber, it’s no surprise to find the walls pebble dashed.

He’s alright now of course. Well actually he’s a bit more than that, and has already been accorded the status of full family member. He’s quite bright for a lab apparently which means he’s not quite terminally stupid. Educationally sub normal definitely, stupidly affectionate, desperate to please and certifiably bonkers.

Still I reckon maybe I’m the dumb one here**. There’s something in a lifestyle that spends 20{45ac9c3234d371044e23e276755ef3a4dde8f1068375defba7d385ca3cd4deb2} of its time playing, eating and checking out the nutritional content of rocks, and the other 80{45ac9c3234d371044e23e276755ef3a4dde8f1068375defba7d385ca3cd4deb2} of the time sleeping.

Yeah, that’s a dog’s life I could get used to.

* A recently discovered mutant species created by splicing a vacumn cleaner to a set of dog parts.

** Thank you for those silent words of support.

The time has come to get properly wet.

On By AlexIn Bikes, Other stuff, Photography6 Comments

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Here’s a picture of what summer looks like. It is from the other side of the world, and taken some six months ago. I still have about a 1000 pictures from that holiday to review, consider, photoshop and then toss in the virtual dustbin. Still it does remind me that some parts of the planet have seasons other than “cold rain“, “chilly hail” “3 month cloud” and “warmer rain with storms”

My drive up north tomorrow is showing as a day that could – if one were tending to the exceeding charitable – be classified as sort of summery. The first day we’re out riding however has Metcheck excited over the prospect of three inches of rain, a cloudbase of zero and a maximum temperature of ten degrees. Which sets the tone for the rest of the week.

So rather than sulk about it, I’ve packed everything that is marketed as even slightly waterproof. I intend to utilise these garments in the well known layering system of wearing everything at the same time. The downside is my car is absolutely packed to the gunwales (apposite term) with stuff and my airy promise to add a person, bike and luggage to the return trip may play out as “Right Andy, it’s you or your bike”

I have also managed to fit in an emergency haircut which ensures I don’t break the first rule of birthday drinks and pick up anything sharp “for a laugh” after many beers. Carol tells me my crown isn’t getting any bigger but this is somewhat offset by the retreating wave of folicles in front of it. I no longer need a hair style or even a combover – really my options are limited to a wig or a hat.

Assuming I can remember how to swim and my liver survives some serial action from the alcohol drip, I’ll be back in a week to tell of mighty epics and life threateneing situations while humming the theme from “The Man From Atlantis“.

Wish me luck, I’m going in.

Beer.. or ride… or Beer… or

On By AlexIn Bikes, Other stuff2 Comments

Not generally a difficult choice. If the sun is shining then beer somehow tastes even better after a pre-dinner sharpener of dirt and sweat. If it’s raining then proceed straight to beer never passing waterproofs, motivation or mud. If, however, your summer is full of moistness and your head desperate for the outside room, even a dodgy forecast and an unbroken line of brooding clouds won’t keep you inside.

But maybe it should. Especially if you forget your rain jacket. Not once, but twice with the second effort irritating me to the point of offering the BBC website a new weather mnemonic known simply as “October“.

My worthy, if navigationally flawed, attempt to link two great woods with something other than boring tarmac has taken on the mantle of an epic voyage. Columbus may has mistaken a few warm islands in the Caribbean for the West Indian coast, but that is nothing, NOTHING I tell you to my aimless wanderings around the Herefordshire countryside.

I have be so lost that a prominent hill positively identified with a major geographical outcrop on my map, turned out to be exactly 180 degrees behind me. Angry shaken fists at distant farmers for sowing crops over little used footpaths were replaced by embarrassed waves, as it became apparent I was carving a wheeled wake over private land. I’ve been scratched, bitten, flayed by spiteful thorns at various times during the last four rides and rained on every time.

The final straw was Monday’s voyage of non discovery where, after thirty minutes of hiding in a wood waiting for the rain to subside below the pain barrier, a dispirited splash back home on hissing, soaked blacktop was rewarded by the sun peeping from behind the now vanishing clouds as I wrung out my socks.

Still every cloud has – apart from about four inches of rain – a silver lining as my map is now nothing more than slightly crinkly water. I don’t suppose this will hinder my route finding in the slightest.

I promised myself that this was the year I would stop bitching about stuff beyond my control. Which at a mere three days before my forty first birthday seems to include about everything.

Specifically though, I was hoping for a sanguinity of middle age where politicians, solicitors, estate agents, voxpox wankers on the radio, Suduko, traffic and, of course, anyone owning a folding bicycle would merely be laughed off in the great game of life.

Failed. Miserable. About to be older, balder and fatter no doubt. So rather than face up to any of that, I’m off to Scotland for our annual “damp midge” tour of some proper mountains. The forecast fully meets my new criteria for “October” which suggests alot of drinking will take place, while expensive mountain bikes remain unmolested by an outside full of horrid.

I just hope no-one tries to wear a PVC dress again this year. I’m barely past the waking up screaming stage from the last time around.

Two Fly Da Fly..

On By AlexIn Other stuff2 Comments

…Crush Crush Lie and Die*. If I’d spent any time whatsoever in casual analysis during a vigorous hour of Spider rehoming, the sheer volume of gossamer webs could be simply explained by enumorous prey stupid enough to be caught.

These winged spitters and shitters are noticeably more prevalent out here in the boondocks. And after much fencing with the furry loofer of doom – “Ha, take that you bounder” Swish/Swipe/Twirl “I am Zorro and this is my sword“- the border guards were evicted and the flybarians were at the gate.

And soon through it, but only hunting in packs of two. And not the same two as testified by the fly graveyard under my monitor. There must be hundreds waiting desperately outside, “Hey Bill, you gotta get in there, flashing lights, crumbs, whole acres of stuff to shit on, it’s ace” but something is preventing them from entering in a back swarm.

Maybe there’s a Tower Fly directing traffic “Permission to fly in and poo?” / “Negative Ghostrider, the pattern is full“**. Still in the meantime, is there a departure lounge where “Flies like us” or “The Fly that loved me” are playing?

And every time a brace buzz in to visit dead relatives, they come into the orbit of THE DESTROYER OF FLIES, THE SCOURGE OF INSECTS, THE SPLATTERER OF WINGS or – to demyth the object a bit – a rolled up jiffy bag. No not that sort.

I’m confident that through the wonder of natural selection, a few fly generations downstream of those flat-plastered onto my monitor will instinctively know that to enter the kingdom of the splatter is to miss out on all the other buzzing, shitting, spitting and being generally annoying opportunities on offer elsewhere.

And if not, well it’s a quick dance of death as they desperately try to evade the swinging reaper, before the inevitable end as their tiny brain is squeezed out of their arse at high pressure.

Lord of the Flies, That’s me.

* 80’s hit. Lead singer had “Prongy Bow Wave” Haircut second in silliness only to that Gel Advert from a Flock of Seaguls.

** It’s a multi media eighties homage in here today.

It’d be quicker by pidgin.

On By AlexIn Other stuff2 Comments

A few years ago, the pony tail and red braces tribe spent time I’ll never get back “strategising“* that all companies would only be successful if they exposed their IT systems, process and – if my notes are correct – arses to their customers.

Their smugness that Clicks’n’Morter** organisations would founder as their traditional qualities of customer service, owning stock and not wearing clothes heading for the new emperor smashed against the cyber-rock bullshit hidden by hideous flash web sites.

And what actually happened? 1999 internet stock crash, crappy outsourced customer service, multi tiered non delivery systems and the ability to track your deliveries on line. Thanks fellas, it’s been emotional.

But let’s not demean all their efforts – surely being able to divine the exact location of some web purchase is a mile marker in the glorious marathon of forgetting what shops are for. Because it is important to understand exactly at what time the desperately important package you’ve spent two hours saving twenty pence surfing for will finally arrive.

One small issue. They are really quite shit. Our Freesat receiver is made by a company that sounds like an advertisement for some extreme porn. HUMMAX are sold by Dixons, dispatched from a warehouse owned by someone else, and not really delivered by DHL. Really, what could possibly go wrong with that supply chain?

Well someone’s pulling mine. DHL dispensed with hard facts and instead offered a couple of quite creative fantasies. Firstly the response to my tracking code was “fatal error, database has exploded, fat IT contractor on the shitter, try again later” before the fabrication increased a notch to “Delivery not possible. Recipient business on holiday”

Couple of points here, we’re neither a business nor on holiday. Since the non delivery didn’t even include a scrawled card tossed in the general area of the front door, a more accurate message would be “Lazy Driver has feet up in cab, reading sports pages and mooning at cows“. Twice I emailed them (because ringing them would undoubtedly unleash a call centre in which, after ten minutes, two people would feel the urge to eat the phone) and twice they ignored me.

So I emailed Dixons who, in a pact with their delivery agents, ignored me as well. I became mildly irritated and resorted to BLOCK CAPS. This generated some activity at the far end assuring me that my package would be delivered as soon as we had finished our holiday. I made the bold claim we were not on holiday and – only a couple of days later – was offered up the worthless promise that delivery was scheduled for today.

If we weren’t on holiday. So I cannot tell you how surprised we were when the driver – fresh from 4 days of sleeping in his cab – bowled up and nearly bowled over the total innocent represented by the aerial fella. We fell upon him as a man dying from thirst would on encountering an oasis, and wrenched from his sweaty hand the magic box that would deliver Channel 5.

Fortified by a strong cup of tea, Sam the aerial man laddered back up onto the roof, waved the Satellite Dish around, performed complex stuff with expensive electronics, and finally delivered a televisual solution that runs to two TVs, four freeview receivers, six SCART cables, one HDMI thingymagic, six remote controls, and about a hundred channels. 93 of which appear to be selling me crap products via the Internet, which is about where we came in.

Of course you could consider the alternative of buying stuff from a shop that has both stock and people. It may cost you an extra tenner, but it’s unlikely to invoke a phone bill running into millions as you wait for someone, anyone to prove “your call is important to them“.

And the real reason I am writing this junk? There is bugger all on the TV.

* that alone is a sufficient crime against the semantic truth to sentence each and every one of them to suffer death by extreme haircutting.

** On second thoughts, death is probably too good for them.

Metrosexual

On By AlexIn Other stuff2 Comments

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Normally a demeaning term reserved for pseudo-cosmopolitan coffee geeks and anyone roaming the city asylum known as London. But today – in a final card burning rejection of my birth county – I have assumed the mantle of poncy beverage bore.

Previously on the hedgehog, we’ve covered off the extensive customer experiences available at Ledbury station. Basically, it’s Bob scowling at you from within his hermit hut, and the fat controller blithering on about nearline, crossover point switching at Abergavenny. The nearest one can get to a milky drink is to accost a passing cow. And as for a newspaper – well a lucky find would be a wind-flecked Herefordshire Observer (incorporating ‘Potato Harvesters Monthly‘)* from 1992.

Rather than use an hours train time for something useful, I’ve cast my net wider in search of yesterdays news. And that takes me half a mile in the wrong direction, with a further few minutes desperately checking my watch as the crusty old proprietor regales me with endless stories of tomato propagation from the inter-war years.

Java though, has been conspicuous by my grumpiness. Ever since acquiring the espresso machine of much faffage, many a happy hour has passed through selection of bean, multi-grain blending experimentation, significant waffling of the frothy fluffer, and occasional drinking. On the downside, instant coffee induces a hurl reflex, which is something I’d happily dispatch on those marketing morons who sell the big lie that dead, frozen beans can somehow taste like real coffee.

Methadone and Heroin. Stella and Kaliber**, Espresso and Instant. See where I’m going with this? Metro-Bloody-Sexual goes without. Until this morning, when a hopeful side street sidle dropped me dead centre at an early opening cafe properly equipped with an espresso barista. Took a while for him to notice me tho, as I’d dropped to my knees whispering “I TAKE IT ALL BACK, THERE IS A GOD AND I AM SAVED”

Once we’d established that my nutter-nuss was merely a mental release valve for a man in clinical need of fresh coffee, he served up a two shot stonker for the miserly sum of£1.50. Missed a trick there, bit of a sellers market, I was ready with the house deeds. And because Heaven had descended to this little plot of Earth, the smell of frying bacon introduced the very welcome prospect of a crunchy pig sanger for accompaniment.

Sadly it was not to be due to a non bread delivery. And in my unrequited gluttony, the clock had been ticking and I was running out of time to pedal. What to do? My only real storage solution was to quickly internalise the problem but the double fat latte was still far too hot for that option,

Thankfully my laziness in not removing a second bottle cage was rewarded in a makeshift beverage transportation system. It’s flexible too – this evening it was to be found gently – but briefly -with a Steak and Cheese Pasty nestled in its’ midst. But the only way I’d be able to offer photographic evidence of that is with a chest x-ray.

* Sponsored by the Potato Marketing Board. All six floors of it apparently. How exactly can the humble tuba need over a hundred people to find creative ways to sell it? “MORNING TEAM, who wants to be the guardian of the idea pool while we brainstorm new ways to pitch the Maris Piper as the Versatile Vegetable?”

** Any confused younger readers may like to follow the link above. But on no account ever extend their research into actually drinking it.

That was the weekend that was

On By AlexIn Bikes, Mountain Bike Riding, Other stuff, PhotographyLeave a comment

Black Mountains August 2008 (19 of 37) by you.

How can it be 6pm on Sunday evening? Someone stole my weekend and unless that same someone gives it back, there shall be unspecified but violently executed trouble. About ten minutes ago, we were enjoying an outdoor dead cow grill-off freshened up by a couple of cold ones, and now there is only a nights’ sleep away from the corporate grind.

I’ll accept that a whole day was lost to some old school mountain biking. With all the new trail centres and dedicated riding, it’s easy to forget that inking in a huge circle round a couple of mountains and just getting on with it, was the default approach to a big day out.

The black mountains offer gradient, views, exposure and wilderness in equal parts. If bad things happen, you’re along way from help and nowhere near a phone signal. As I’d picked up the navigating tab, my nervousness as leaving us benighted on a proper Welsh mountain probably contributed to us getting lost on the way to the start point.

Black Mountains August 2008 (11 of 37) Black Mountains August 2008 (13 of 37)
Which set the scene for us (well me really) failing a number of navigational challenges including “This is a muddy sheep track and you promised us a big rocky downhill” and “How the hell do we get out of this humongous, wood before extreme hunger sets in and you’re dinner“

Black Mountains August 2008 (14 of 37) Black Mountains August 2008 (32 of 37)

And even when we finally stumbled back on track, huge 1000 foot carries separated us from the other side of the mountain. And endless climbs – framed by ground to sky glacial valleys – mocked our weedy legs and rasping lungs. But when gravity began pushing rather than pulling, we happily plunged down 10 kilometre descents, and bashed rocks until our legs, arms and central cortex could take no more.
Black Mountains August 2008 (20 of 37) Black Mountains August 2008 (29 of 37)
Which was about the point that the final 4 miles of climbing unwound from the very top of a big forest. Luckily I headed off the “Al in a Pot” mutiny by spotting a short cut which saved a) a 300 foot climb to the summit and b) my bacon.

The big day ended in a big feast where three men did something quite obscene to a huge dish of lasagna. Followed by similar acts of hedonism on some damn fine reds. All of which made cooking up a cholesterol death breakfast the first imperative of a groggy Sunday morning. Summarily dispatched, my body appeared incapable of independent movement – a state that completely failed to pass muster when confronted by a shit load of moving and grouting that apparently cannot wait.

So cleaned bikes, unloaded a ton of stone – which appears to have the same price per ounce as gold* – moved stuff around in a circular fashion, and made strenuous attempts to prevent children from trampolining into the river. When I say strenuous, what I actually mean is shouting “if you bounce over the fence, don’t expect me or your mum to come and get you. Swim down to Hereford and hand yourself over to a policeman“

And now it’s 6PM and the weekend has just been whipped away from under my foraging snout. Two questions – can this be in any way fair, and who do I blame?

* more on this later, when the insanity of buying a 200 year old cider pressing stone in leiu of food for a year dims to a dull ache.

Going aerial

On By AlexIn Other stuff4 Comments

A term describing a risky cricketing shot attempting to loft the ball over the fielders to score a boundary. Every time I tried it, it was always well received – normally by the bloke standing at mid-on. That reminds me that I once spent a happy hour describing fielding positions to an American girlfriend assuming she might be even slight interested.

Only once I’d expanded – at some length – on the nuances between Silly Mid On and Cover Point, did I realise she was slumped asleep having knocked herself unconscious with mirth at the stupidity of any game that breaks for lunch. We were at a proper cricket match as well, with the mighty Hampshire about 19-8 against a touring West Indies team. Back in the day, I knew how to show a girl a good time.

Anyway enough of a ramble through my sexually charged twenties, and more of an argument I tried to have with a man to whom the term “Rampant Profiteering” was entirely analogous to “Normal Business Practice”

Me: “Because I am merely a vassal for my children, can you please sort me out an aerial before social services find “In the Night Garden” has not been digitally available for 4 days”

Him:”Certainly Sir, that’ll be£212 plus the VAT of course”

Me: “No sorry, you’ve misunderstood me, I merely require someone to climb a ladder, install a length of wet string and drill a single hole in a wall”

Him: “Ah, well sir if only it were that simple. There’s alignment, gain, positioning and configuration of the cosmic interface and that’s before we start on all that digital malarky”

Me: “See that ridge up there”

Him “Yes”

Me: “See that huge bloody transmitter on top of it, which you must agree is quite significantly within line of sight as we can both see it”

Him [testily] “Yes, of course”

Me: “I can’t point my finger at that and receive Radio 3 in perfect stereo. The only alignment you could possibly need would be ‘Oi Bob, nudge it over a bit to the left.’ That can not possibly cost the thick end of£300″

Him: “Well it does”

Me: “Well it bloody doesn’t”

Can’t be hard can it? Ladder, Aerial, Drill. Get them in the right order and it’s a ten minute job. Probably.

Since I’m at one with technical stuff, serious consideration is being given to dragging the hedgehog into prickling distance of the latest WordPress release. I am only six versions behind, have no backup other than the back of a few envelopes, and understand not a single instruction from the 47 point upgrade plan.

Assuming the disaster waits for me to happen upon it, there may be some unscheduled downtime. A month should cover it.

First light. Then rain.

On By AlexIn Bikes, Road RidingLeave a comment

Blah blah dawn ride blah dawn mist shrouds the trees, blah surreal view over the Malvern hills, blah sun burning heat and light into the day, blah, 35 MPH sweeping downhill on deserted roads, blah two cars in ten miles. Blah, privilege to be riding my bike.

Pah. Draw the eye back from the flowery wank that that paragraph could so easily have become. Focus critical faculties on issues relating to perilous state of the road surface, still marked by scars that could only be misplaced WWII bombs. Craters deep enough to swallow man and wheel, a camber designed by nature to switch a road to stream in anything much more than a light shower.

And hilly, so very hilly after three years of Chilterns-Twinned-With-Holland commuting. Even with my inner smug drowning out the ground state of grumpy, it couldn’t totally suppress the thought that this route wasn’t going to be a whole lot of fun if it was wet and I was tired. Although I really didn’t expect to have the chance to test this assertion some 11 hours later.

Luckily a hardened commuting nose had smelt rain at 6am, and so a jacket was packed. Unfortunately the aural breeze wasn’t strong enough to stow mudguards or any other waterproofs, which, considering the bouncing rain and spleen trembling thunder which greeted my arrival back in Ledbury, was possibly a slight oversight.

The sky had the look of an unmilked cow, and I wondered whether this could be a good time to fit my lights. Sadly, having not packed the 12 mile arms, they too were on the wrong side of deeply unavailable. So I jacketed up and headed on into a decent impression of a tropical rainstorm. Inevitably balancing narrow slick tyres on wet slick roads was often quite entertaining. And without wishing to big up the danger, a couple of “ooooh shit, I am no longer in control of the steering axis” incidents possibly tipped the terror needle past mildly exciting.

Despite the best efforts of the alien technology* in my ludicrously expensive jacket, my upper body physiology was morphing into that of a boil in the bag. However, this was still a slightly more pleasant experience than the aquaphobic sensation of water sloshing between my toes. And yet even these soggy items came only a distant second in the “All Herefordshire Moist Limb Competition“, easily won by an arse sounding five fathoms, and suffering radial pebbledash.

Event times as miserable as this can be made significantly worse if one chooses a bold clothing decision. My removal of my – by now – smoking jacket perfectly coincided with the entire Al/Bicycle combination becoming beflooded**. Still playing to my dysfunctional democracy, each individual body part was now equally saturated, and every one was voting for an immediate halt under a tree.

Considering the lightening and a hollow feeling that could not be assuaged by the inhalation of my emergency food ***, the higher brain function took a decision to mentally raise the spinnaker and make fast sail for the pub. An athlete’s pep up of one pint and two bags of dry roasted nuts – while hard rain attempted to smash the roof – pepped me up for the final two miles home.

Of which one and a half are up a big f*cking hill demanding much twitching of the girly gear selection thumb. After this was wearily dispatched, only the final plunge through what was probably once a road separated me from a dry arse. This particular rural highway is comprised of three materials, grass, broken hardcore and tarmac. In that order. It’s reasonably involving on 100psi of 23c tyre, while squinting through the rain and darkening sky.

Sure, I was piss wet thru from limited thatch to buckety shoes, the bike was making the kind of noises not associated with long component life, and I feared for the state of the firm’s non waterproof laptop, but it was great to be home.

Because however cold, dark and wet the commute is and whatever the frustration of a million DIY jobs undone, this does feel like home. And after living in limbo for six months, that’s a bloody great feeling.

* Allows sweat to pass, while barring rain from the outside. How can that be, surely they are both of the base element H20? Is there some kind of password? “Sorry matey, you’re not on the list, bugger off”.

** A worthy third of the terrifying triumvirate Beflooded, Benighted and Unbanked. It would take a far stronger man than I to survive simultaneous exposure.

*** Which was keeping my waterproofs, lights and mudguards company.

Cooking on Gas

On By AlexIn Other stuff, PhotographyLeave a comment

Please don't let it rain... we're cooking on that

Not mains gas of course as that would be far too a) easy and b) cheap. At some point in the unspecified future, a man either qualified to mess about with lethal gases, or the proud owner of the Queen’s favourite mutt shall connect Flange ‘B’ to Gusset ‘F’, and the bloody enormous cooker shall be ready for use.

Proposed site for a proper cooker Kitchen before..

For Carol this means the ability to feed the family using all manner of interesting flames – some confined to the oven, others threatening eyebrow removal up top. For me, it’ll provide the perfect partner for Sunday fryups built around a signature dish of eggy soldiers. I’m not much for cooking but the ‘external thermally coupled griddle with afterburner thrust” is essentially an indoor BBQ, and no real man can resist that.

The Informational Tornado

Until then we were resigned to all weather BBQ’ing augmented by any fine delicacies than can be fried by microwave. But saved we were* by our insanely kind sellers who still live next door, and happened to have a cooker going spare.

This helped the ease the moving trauma which began at an unholy 7:30 this morning, and included such highlights as yours truly being felled by a hail of coat hangers, the terrifying loss of all our booze, and the broken inevitably of two large men being overrun by a large wardrobe.

Still they’ll probably be fine. Spinally compressed and a bit shorter, but basically fine. They build them different out here and I’ll leave you with an example of exactly how different that can be.

Various builders, electricians and random interlopers have been glassy eyed confused on my retelling of how we saw a bridally bedecked tractor heading off to Church this morning. Everyone thought this was strange, me because it’s a TRACTOR for God’s sake, and everyone else not understanding why I should find this amusing.

And when they had all gone, I walked up the hill and spent ten minutes in the viewing company of absolutely bugger all. It may not be for everyone, but here and now it feels bloody fantastic.

* No ariel. No TV. Been practicing my Yoda method acting through repeated viewings.