Category: Other stuff

Pretty concise and snappy title eh? Yes I do have a life outside Mountain Biking. No, it’s no better written or researched.

Life’s a beach

On By AlexIn Other stuff, PhotographyLeave a comment

H;mm beachy

I have spent much of the last two days in a state best described as “Moderately Damp”. This level of external moistness normally fires up the hedgy bilge pump to spray out exactly how wet/unhappy/in receipt of ‘trench willy’ my latest bike ride was. And followingsome random punctuation and naughty words, comes invariably a whinge that the bad weather has got personal, and there’s no one left to complain to.

Not today. An opportunisic very long weekend saw us heading out to the Welsh Riveria where golden beaches and stunning backdrops await. Not that we ever got that far, because a late start and early finish bracketed our sandy day. Which had started with a well known “low cost” tyre emporium cheerfully explaining that a) two tyres for the mighty Love Bus would be£330, b) They didn’t have any and c) tracking was extra.

How can it be extra? I am a major shareholder, surely, after that purchase and deserve some owner perks? And no wonder they didn’t have any, because at that price, I assume some Cuban virgin is hand rolling fresh rubber on her supple thighs. Hang on a minute, I just need to… er one more minute.. no I’m good…. right, as you were. Anyway I spurned their request for a large bucket of cash in return for some vague promise of future service, and instead deposited Baldy The Mini-Truck at the local garage.

Who, without any reference to far-flung, rubber rolling maidens, did the job in quarter of the time for about half the cost. This says to me that certain chains – okay KwikFit – are a bunch of racketeering, scaremongering rapscallions, and I shall not be darkening their telephone lines again. This is the first, and probably, last time the hedgehog does Public Service Broadcasting, and so I’d appreciate it if you could shout “THEIVING BASTARDS” ever time you pass one of their dens of financial inequity.

Anyway the beach was lovely, unspoiled and vast. The dog was mad, mentally disturbed and much chastised. The kids were briefly cold, often wet and full of the kind of smiles that only sand and ice cream can bring. I was merely sunburned on my extensive thin bit, and mildly exercised removing Murf from other peoples sandwiches.

The huge caravan park however is something else. It’s evenly split between people waiting to die, and those who are drinking such industrial quantities of cheap cider, they may soon be joining them. It was properly tacky with a betting shop on site, adjacent to a nasty looking greasy cafe and a gaudy bingo hall. It is also pretty close to my idea of hell, but – on walking through it – it seems I was in a minority of one. Although since I was the only bloke sober or not on life support in a twenty acre radius, this may have been contributory.

It’s not me being some kind of intellectual snob here. Mainly because I have neither the intellect or upbringing to be either, but I just don’t understand why you’d cage yourself in camp of 300 identical caravans, while there are delights aplenty all around. I am worryingly starting to view canvas bell tents in a non ironic manner, but the only good thing I can say about these caravans is at least they weren’t blocking a major arterial highway.

Having just about dried off, today we took 10 of Verbal’s friend’s swimming, ratcheting up the excitement with a huge floaty activity thingymebob*, before shovelling a zillion sugared calories and a similar number of e-numbers into their hungry stomachs. Parents love these swim parties as they get 2 hours of child-free weekend bliss. Having seen those kids at the end of the party, I’m not sure they’ve fully got the risk/reward gig here.

Anyway I must off to go battle with the eye high weeds with the Al modified strimmer**, because tomorrow the weather is again set fair. I think it would be wholly inappropriate not to enjoy that on some kind of bicycle.

* I fell off it three times. And then stopped, because I’d swallowed most of the pool. I told the kids I was merely prat-falling to amuse their little minds. They’re 10 and too lifeworn for that “Yeah, whatever“.

** Oh yes. Only a proper engineer can see something electrically certified and clearly dangerous, before thinking “right, to give it a bit of a kick, let’s simply convert it to NITRO“,

A year is a long time in..

On By AlexIn Other stuff2 Comments

… Herefordshire. No, I can’t quite believe it either but fifty two weeks have passed since we surfed into the county on a stream of storm washed mud. Tomorrow we’re celebrating with a trip to the “Welsh Rivera” where the dog shall attempt to unearth Australia through vigorous digging, and the kids may, or may not get washed out to sea.

They swim better than me, so it’s pretty pointless going after them. Worse case they’ll be swept onto the east coast of Ireland and the name tags in their swimming costumes should see them DHL’d home, before we’ve really noticed.

On the first day of my very long weekend, I graciously took time out to locate the perfect spot for a lovely family picnic in the warm sunshine. And while hungry offspring disemboweled some pork pies, I found – by happy coincidence – that 200 metres of big Welsh slope provided a bit of a lift for one of my silly gliders. Well it didn’t really, because it was as flat as it was it was calm, and the uplifiting thermals were hidden behind pesky cloud.

But I cared not at all because it’s a view of mountains – so perfect they must be CGI – that I can never tire of. When I explained we were celebrating our first anniversary in the six fingered county, the question of whether I missed anything was posed. I thought about that for a while, before responding that there was really nothing at all. And I’d counted all those reasons twice.

Although my perspective may be skewed by six hours of Motorway madness ending in Milton Keynes yesterday. Our spanky new office is so fresh from the construction packet, the SatNav can’t find it and niehter could I. Having parked some four damp nautical miles away, the irony of travelling 120 miles to participate in a video conference with an office closer to me couldn’t even raise a smile.

A smile which stayed deep stowed as I attempted to carve out a political niche with the “5 Door Hatchback and Anti Motorway Party“* using my 365 day old local knowledge (no good, got lost), and the ever reliable SatNav (reliable in that it’ll direct you up the back passage of a passing cow). It saved me 4 miles and cost me about an hour, but – in principle – a navigational triumph.

I did manage to crack a grin earlier today though as the four new chickens (BHD**, Fluffy, Lt. Nibble and Boudicia: it’s a long story and has a Random element – I’ll spare you) plus the surviving wonky necked Nugget have brought about the “Second Laying“. A single egg greeted us this evening, and by my calculation we merely need another 9,254 to break even assuming they never eat again.

So as the sun gently sets over the field, and the head settles almost as gently on a muched loved bottle of Hooky Gold, I’m feeling immensely smug. Which shall likely last all the time it takes for a man in a boiler suit to drag in a huge intake of breath, and demand a few million pounds for two new tyres tomorrow.

I wonder if he’ll take an egg as a down payment?

* Got as good a chance as anyone else I reckon. It’s not like those bonkers “The Sun hasn’t set on the Empire” yet nutters or the fascist twats in ill fitting suits. We’re campeigning on two issues, and our first policy will be a massive economy stimulating programme of building scorpion pits.

** Bad Hair Day

OCD

On By AlexIn Other stuff, Photography5 Comments

Or CDO as we obsessives like to order it. I have spent the majority of my Bank Holiday weekend polishing adequate to create something smacking of compulsive. I don’t know many people who would level four odds’n’sods bins with a spirit level, or even spend a hour on the web searching for a match for what they already had.

*Raises hang guiltily* It’s still not done, A couple of under-bench shelves will be harvested from some old fire doors, and the Swedish basket system re-made through the simple medium of re-allocating a fistful of drinking vouchers.

Notice the post project beer* taking pride of place. And if you think that side is tidy, check this out.

Workshop/Bike Store Workshop/Bike Store

Workshop/Bike Store Workshop/Bike Store

Worry not about bike removal versus possible shelf interference. I went all scientific with string and angles, before running a full bike removal simulation. Yes, it took some time, but being right is sometimes better than being quick**, so I could relax on my pimpy stool with a beer some bottles downstream from the topping out glass, and declare – with a satisfied nod – “That’ll do”.

It’d have been a whole lot easier without six silly model aeroplanes that formed no part of the original plan. But a on-the-job design mod saw a bunch of pre-loved plasterboard jimmied into the roof, delivering the perfect storage solution to filing lots of occasionally useful shit.

Although in my rush to get it done, I’m not exactly sure what. Haven’t seen the cat for a couple of days which may explain why one of the boxes kept changing shape as I attempted to stow it.

We’ve*** finished the office as well which is significantly less busy although that may just because I’m meant to be working in it. The view into the field would be lovely, were it not for the acres of “to be dealt with” crap outside the window. And until the wood fades a bit, I’m feeling tempted to strip off and set fire to the bookcase to create the authentic Sauna experience.

Before I filled it with electronic detritus and much loved – but long filed – pictures, it looked like this:

Workshop/Bike Store

Three things struck me this evening as three days of holiday came to a rather abrupt end:

1) I’ve spent most of it working inside. While it has been stupidly hot and lovely outside. I’d pay good money we no longer have to switch this weekend with the last one – so CLIC would have been fantastic, and finsihing this wouldn’t feel like penance for something very bad from a previous life.

2) I don’t need to finish a job I just started. The actual task doesn’t matter, but for the first time in bloody ages, it doesn’t have to be done by tomorrow. It won’t last, but it feels pretty damn good to actually finish something, and not have to immediately start the next thing.

3) We’re bloody lucky to live here. You sort of lose sight of that. But walking the mad mutt in the warm evening, and being immersed in a million acres of stuff gowing like buggery feels like quite a privilege.

Sometimes you spend so much time trying to plan for what’s about to happen, you kind of forget why you started in the first place. Having spent an giggly hour on the trampoline with the kids, I’m going to try bloody hard not to do so in future.

* not shown, two previously topping out beers quaffed in about 9 seconds after working inside on the hotest day of the year.

** A couple of examples come to mind that buck that particular argument. I’ll not be troubling the hedgehog readership with either of them, since one of that readership is my mum.

*** I had a “Mission Control” morning with a million cables and recalcitrant Wireless tat, Carol painted the hard yards of the floor. Three times 🙂

Happy Murfday

On By AlexIn Clic-24, Other stuff, Photography2 Comments

I remembered the dog’s birthday, but somehow managed to book a weekend of misery – where the Holy Trinity of riding horror: wind, rain and mud shall converge on a sodden field full of hollow eyed idiots – when Verbal hits double figures. A masterly oversight that would normally offer a perfect excuse to stay warm and dry inside, but your sponsorship means that is not allowed to happen.

I hope you’re happy 😉

Anyway the dog is now a year old and in the eight months he’s been a member of the Leigh-pack, he’s grown into a much loved, if slightly destructive family pet. The wear and tear on shoes and bins has come as a bit of a surprise, as has the worrying prospect that he still has some way to grow. Unfortuantly this is unlikely to be in the much shrunken areas of his stubby ears amd stumpy legs. As all the growth genes have been seemingly directed to his head, nose and stomach.

And yes he smells a bit, his attention span can be measured in nanoseconds, he’s not terribly obedient and his drool can be a bit embarrassing. We’re still talking about the dog here, ok? Last night he demonstrated all these qualities on being asked to “come” from some major sniffage action he’d undertaken a hundred yards or so away.

His response was unusually immediate and, as ever, enthusiastic. I watched in dog training pleasure as he arced round a clump of trees and turned onto an intersect trajectory. What should happen now is the well trained dog will slow, sit in front of you and be rewarded with a treat.

I have to mitigate what follows with the rider that he tried. He really did, engaging full reverse 4 paw thrust about twenty yards out in the expectation of stopping some two seconds later. What actually happened was those big, fat paws merely aqua-planed on the wet grass, and – if anything – 35 kilograms of rock hard dog began to accelerate.

The last thing I remember was seeing a look of some shock on Murf’s fizog before the world flipped ninety degrees and I found myself lying winded, face down in the long, damp grass. I thought I’d stay there for a while to mentally prepare myself for the CLIC this weekend*. Lord Smelly of Dog had other ideas and I received the “slobber of life” which is a medical triumph in terms of immediacy of response.

Within a second I was back up with a “Geroff, yuk, ugh, horrible animal“. I was wet everywhere, especially where slob-o-dog had gone straight for tongues, my good knee now hurts like the bad one and my elbow is making a strange clicking sound. It’s probably some kind of water diviner which could be useful for tomorrow. In case I cannot work out where the h20 is by following the stair-rods of horizontal rain.

Anyway, wish me luck. Or just point and laugh. I don’t care, I couldn’t be more miserable. The only thing that has cheered me up is the reinstatement of the “TOOL WALL” after a year abandoned in various lofts. Tune in over the weekend – not for some twatter/mobile phone picture update – but for some OCD type images of the half finished workshop.

I am going outside. I may be some wet.

* I made this observations last year. And it was fantastically sunny over the whole weekend. I’m thinking of it as my lucky joke. Let’s hope it works eh? One the one side “my lucky joke“, on the other a million weather computers predicting conditions ideal for submarine exercises. H’mm.

My First Smartphone

On By AlexIn Other stuff4 Comments

That’s what is written in bright, bold graphics on the box here. It suggests that once a precocious youngster has outgrown their first book, first games console and first teeth, they progress onto a device that places one in the middle of an informational tornado, while mysteriously beeping, flashing and generally showing off. But in a nice, trendy, friendly manner.

So what must a grizzled IT veteran of twenty plus years think of such a marketing ploy? A man who once single handedly disconnected the entire Hungarian International Phone System*, threatened the then boss of Direct Line with the sharp end of his screwdriver, and delivered an email solution to a country who’d previously communicated by the use of a racing goat**?

Before answering that, let’s examine what it replaces. A brick of technology that attained the dubious honour of having me crave the return of the first dumbphone. It too arrived in snazzy packaging declaring that it would solve every communication problem I’d ever had, and some I didn’t even understand. A proud boast instantly debunked when the mute button conspicuously failed to silence my children.

I could forgive it that since they’re resolutely impervious to any communication method not involving chocolate, club penguin or a ritual beating***. What I cannot condone however is its’ utter uselessness at everything else. The central plank of rubbishness is a richly engaging interface powered by scone crumbs. Let me furnish you with an example, the phone rings – well first it sort of shudders, random lights flash before a cheery chirp announces an incoming call – I press the “answer” button (not as easy as you may think with the oh-so-designed black on black symbols).

Does this simple action connect the call? Does it fuck. Nothing happens, nothing, the phone continues to trill, I start to tap desperately on the “tactile touch management input environment” which triggers an cessation of all noises, a vibrate-y death rattle and a dark, unresponsive phone. The call has long gone, but entertainment of sorts can be had watching this triumph of miniaturisation finally respond to my hundred key presses.

The best ever was adding a contact “Mr gsgjas;igdshah;shg;gs” with a voice tag of “OH FOR FUCKS SAKE“. Worse still is the iPod Wannabee graphics which apparently allow one to “move, spin and shuffle content.” But all I want to do is answer the sodding call. Anyway, SconeCrum(tm) technology is always about ten minutes behind whatever your last key-press was, so it’s instructive to take a piece of fresh paper, point the phone camera at it, then cut it into random pieces and shift them about with your hand to try and show it what you were hoping for.

Talking of the camera, that has a delay so comically long that your picture of a happy child standing outside a sweet shop will finally render into a picture of a world long since depopulated by humans. I could go on, no really I’ve not started on the STUPID half touch/half stylus/all insane control system that pre-assumes you have three hands, four hundred fingers and the dexterity of a concert pianist. Or the fact the random screen dimming that creates an impossible puzzle of how to unlock the phone in any type of sunlight.

Let me summarise instead. It’s tat, expensive shit for the technologically vain, violence inducingly slow and breathtakingly useless at absolutely everything. The GPS still thinks it’s in Southampton when you’re on the moon, the web browser is so ball-achingly turgid you yearn for the communications goat, and the switch between horizontal and vertical modes is measured in the kind of dying epochs that has you lying sideways on the floor rather that switch horizons on the screen.

When I returned it at the end of a similar rant to a young innocent who had hitherto been happily squeezing his spots and pretending to be some kind of mobility expert, he remarked it was ringing and did I want to answer it. I *may* have been slightly sarcastic in my reply stating “oh that’s from about three weeks ago, they’ve probably died by now”

So how do I like “my first smartphone” with it’s cheap plastics, absence of any type of “hybrid input ergonomics“, small screen and massively restricted functionality. Well I wasn’t so sure, until it allowed me to answer a call without any histrionics whatsoever. My caller was surprised to the point of apology “oh sorry, I was going to leave you a message, I didn’t think your phone worked“.

It didn’t work. As a phone, an email device, a lawn dart or anything remotely useful whatsoever. I’m regressing back to stupid technology, boycotting the new, steering well clear of marketing attempts to merge toasters and televisions. I’ve no face to book, not tweet to twat and no network that needs socialising. I don’t need the bastard love child of a laptop and a phone to make my life miserable, I have the building works for that.

And the weather forecast for the CLIC. There’s another thing, at least stone tablets would work underwater.

* 7 lines in total, if I remember correctly. It was quite a long time ago

** They’ve still never really forgiven me. Whether it’s for the curse of email, or what happened to the goat, I cannot be sure.

*** Okay that’s not true. Well not often, anyway.

Chickens foxed.

On By AlexIn Other stuff5 Comments

We’ve had our four chickens for less than two months. Past tense entirely appropriate here, after a fox killed two, took one and left the other for dead. The casual brutality is shocking – especially looking to shove them into the safety of the chicken house for the night, and finding three pathetically still chickens, broken, flat on their backs.

The fourth was nowhere to be seen but the trail of feathers suggest a violent end that wasn’t in the story I fabricated for my youngest. This was “her” chicken, and while you could argue that shielding kids from the grizzlier side of the food chain is cowardly, it wasn’t you faced with a tearful eight year old needing reassurance.

And while unhappily bagging up the dead birds, we noticed the fat one that lays ostrich size eggs was still breathing. Upside down, clearly traumatised but just as clearly not dead. It must have been knocked over and gone into shock so fooling the fox it didn’t need finishing off. We gratefully moved inside clutching the catatonic chicken, and watched it stagger about a bit, before it went to hide in a corner.

It’s still there or thereabouts two days later method acting a cross between Howard Hughes and Greta Garbo. Apparently chickens tend to just give up, stop eating and fall off the mortal perch. But we’ve high hopes for this feisty little bugger, it’s now eating a few hand fed grapes and has even managed a bit of outside pecking without mentally crumbling. Cast a shadow anywhere close though, and it freezes assuming it is about to be eaten.

This – fortuitously – is Verbal’s chicken, and she’s very keen to see it pull through. Personally I think it’s milking it now, but obviously I’m keeping that to myself. And while I know that chickens are nothing more than noisy, mobile egg laying units, and foxes kill everything and take hardly anything, and you shouldn’t get attached to domestic poultry, and the fox has cubs to feed so who are we to choose, and, and… it was still bloody upsetting.

Some things have changed. We’ll not be putting them into their new enclosure until I’ve erected Colditz type electric fences, surrounded it with ninja voles and armed the new chickens with automatic weapons. Yes, we’re going for four more, and this time we’ll try and discharge our duty of care with a little less naivity about how high foxes can jump.

And that’s not all that’s changed. My attitude to fox hunting has always been on the liberal side of hand wringing served up with a shoulder chip of class warrior. But having found that not everyone who participated was total dick, and having seen first hand the waste of fox kills, I’m not so sure anymore.

I am sure of one thing, if I saw that fox, I’d shoot the bugger.

Herefordshire’s finest WW1 Trench Experience

On By AlexIn Other stuff, Photography5 Comments

Now under development. Exclusive photos below:

Ready to add the “firing step”

Stop before you hit the big shed! Yes it really is that orange. No, we don’t know why, it’s not the colour on the tin.

I’m hoping that’s not “finished”.

Back to work, thankfully I am 60 miles from the digger carnage. Unfortunately I’ll be back there later. Probably testing the trenches by falling in.

Confusion

On By AlexIn Other stuff, PhotographyLeave a comment

I’d like to start with a complaint. Not from me, although while you’re asking my left hamstring is giving me serious grief, my knee continutes to move in odd directions and the old shoulder war-wound is not short of random gyp-age.

You appear to have nodded off, sorry am I being boring?* Anyway we traditionally revere complaints down here in the bowls of the hedgehog. It shows people are at least paying attention, and there is nothing worse than desperate attempts to be annoying being met with nothing more than an apathetic shrug.

But this is different, someone complained there wasn’t enough drivel on the site, rather than too much. This wasn’t some back handed compliment that the quality of output has improved, rather the frequency has decreased. There’s a reason for that, I am bloody busy trying to spin plates marked “work”, “family”, “house” and “hobbies”.

Currently I’m metaphorically sat on the floor surrounded by shattered crockery. So rather than face up to the reality that something has to go**, I bought a few more gliders and parked them in trees. That one up there is branded as a “fusion” because, apparently, they couldn’t get away with calling it “the pig ugly bastard”. From every angle it’s a munter, wing too thick, fin to big, fuselage too small.

Reminds me a bit of an aeronautical representation of my own oddly shaped form. Chucking off a slope just to protect your eyes doesn’t help much, except it becomes slightly less ugly – but only because it is further away. Anyway there are all sorts of rituals and nonsense around “maidening”*** a new glider.

Some shit about how it flies, fiddling with complex knobs (which may be where the word “maiden” comes in) and declaring how it will very much improve your flying/sex life/general cool hunting prowess.

Not for me. I cannot really consider a model “maiden’d” until it’s been in at least one tree. This one I hit twice with the ugly stick, one tree to my left, one to my right. And I can say – without fear of contradiction – that this 60inch foam monster is signifcantly harder to remove from a Hawthorn than its smaller, and marginally less gopping, brethern.

I spent time I had none of lassoing trees with hosepipes, and risking a life of which I only have one edging nervously toward the edge of branches. All the time being punctured by vibrant thorns and significantly distressed by vertigo.

So not really the relaxing interlude I was looking for. Neither is this, so I’ll leave you with airy promises of further missives discussing a milestone for the mad dog, a hole in the ground that needs much filling, and some lies around my awesome preparation for the CLIC-24.

For which I need another£170 sponsorship if I am to get the firm to match it. So any further donations would be much appreciated.

* In Al’s list of the most boring conversations, other peoples’ minor ailments slots in just behind some vicarous arswipe telling you how clever their children are. Top of the list is – currently – anything involving paintbrushes.

** Generally me. To the off license.

*** There are some obsessives out there that I believe take this verb a little too literally. Still they can’t arrest you for it. As long as you’re not outside.

Giant Herefordshire Hedgehog forced to diet.

On By AlexIn Other stuffLeave a comment

Some kind soul sent me this article describing how a porky ‘hog had some gorged himself to three times the normal size for spiky roadkill. Because this particular fat boy lives out his days stealing cat food at a sanctuary near Ross-on-Wye, the sender assumed that it must be me.

Stop laughing. It’s not me, ok.

On reading the article I find “Maureen Webb, who runs the centre, said she was fed a normal amount of cat food but had been “growing and growing” and that “the hedgehog, which weighs the same as a small cat, was named after its “stroppy nature“.”

So I can see how my reader could have been easily confused.

I’m off for a ryvita lunch and a conference call with my legal team.

Holey Moley

On By AlexIn Other stuffLeave a comment

We’re going for a temporal shift tonight. Rather than me imagine something that could have happened and may be amusing, I need you to stir your creative juices* so to paint some pictures in your head**. Because the photos that really should accompany this post are as yet untaken. There are many good reasons for this, but I shall give you just one: It is already dark and somebody stole the spare from my time.

First the “garden” – never really a garden really and certainly not one now. After Ken “The Lost Wurzel” and his mighty digger excavated an unbelievable 150 tonnes of harcore, this former car park now resembles the showpiece exhibit for the Manhattan Project. Either than or ground zero at a significant meteor strike.

I expect to receive our first inquisitive visitors once we’ve upgraded to the full Flanders Trench experience due next week. Christ knows how much deeper we can go before we hit the water table. Or Australia. Not that this troubles the many tradespeople now setting up second home in our house. A round table roll up and tea excavation summit ended with the following joint statement “Arrgh, she’ll be fine”

Yes, we do seem to be employing pirates. This in no way phases me as I have really no idea what’s going on at all anymore. If one of the interchangeable Geoffs/Johns/Kens wandered in and announced “okay the Gorrilla is here, still going in the utility room, yes?” I’d just assume the big furry fella is an integral part of the heating system, and go and fetch some bananas.

There has to be some reason for the roof being four inches higher than it was*** and a 8 foot primate would seem as good idea as any. It certainly looks like Godzilla was involved in cutting a doorway between the hall and the mini warehouse tacked onto the side of the house. And quite why a new wall has gone up in there is the kind of mystery beyond my ken to solve.

Maybe we’re going to box the kids in? Not that I’ve seen much of them either because my time is spent between keyboard and paintbrush with not much in between. Today I wasted invested four hours protecting our massive erection with a fluid not unlike the fnar-fnar where we came in.

I was – predictably – so bored I painted in a style of whatever the mp3 player was shuffling. So Green Day meant anarchistic splashes while The Killers segued into rhythmic stripes. A long forgotten prog rock track extended the brushing past the end of the wood, and onto the dog. Still he looks good with a racing stripe.

You really do need to see some pictures. Not because it is any way interesting, rather I need someone to tell me it’s going to get better soon and all this money/dust/boredom/stress is worth it. I’d consider pitching a tent in what’s left of the garden and declaring myself temporarily insane except a) no one would really notice and b) it’s not so bad that CAMPING could in any way be better.

Well it wasn’t that bad until I found another big hole. It’s in the budget spreadsheet and I’ve just filled it with a large glass of wine.

* Perfectly legal with the proviso that no animals are harmed during the process.

** Better than crayons eh? I’ve got a good handle on the mental age of most of my readers.

*** This was amusing. A bunch of blokes trying to gauge how long four inches was. The fairer sex were somewhat more accurate.