Sorry, Richmal!

“I’ve gotter chatroom!” said Willsimoniam, triumphantly, “It’s the best one on the world wide web. An’, ….” he muttered darkly, “if anybody says it’s not, I’ll…I’ll…well, they jus’ jolly well better not, that’s all!” His warlike glare defied any of the other three Outlaws to cast aspersions on Willsimoniam’s proudest possession. Domallyuglas, Gingeretta and Henry wilted beneath his stern gaze. “The world-wide web? Wot’s that?” asked Henry, “Is it made by a ‘normous spider?” “Ooh! Is it a massive network of internashunal spies?” asked Gingeretta excitedly. “Is it a huge bit of cloth wot you could wrap the whole Earth up in?” queried Domallyuglas. “It‘s none of those things,” said Willsimoniam, scornfully, “the world-w…..” “Wot’s a chatroom, then?” Henry interrupted, “Is it in the hotel wot you’re livin’ in?” “No,” said Willsimoniam. “Is it at your mother’s house?” asked Gingeretta. “No!” said Willsimoniam, “it’s…” “Is it a speshul meeting place?” asked Domallyuglas, “I know, it’s in the village hall, isn’t it?” “NO!” bellowed Willsimoniam, “It’s not a real room, like you fin' in a house, it’s…” “Huh!” snorted Henry, not waiting for Willsimoniam to finish, “it can’t be much of a room, then, if it’s not a real room an’ it’s not anywhere!” “This must be a chatroom, then,” said Gingeretta, indicating the old barn with a sweeping gesture, “we come in here an’ chat all the time!” “Look! I jus’ said it’s not an akshul room,” said Willsimoniam, “people with a computer can…” “A what?” said Domallyuglas. “A computer,” explained Willsimoniam, “it’s a machine wot can have a chatroom in it an’….” Gingeretta chipped in. “Why don’t you show us, then?” By this time, however, the other two Outlaws were getting bored with the proceedings. “Oh, I don’t want to see some old room that’s not a room ‘cos it’s in a machine or somethin’,” said Domallyuglas, “come on, Henry. Let’s go and chase Miss Dalrymple’s cat!” “Good idea!” said Henry, “I din’t want to see his silly ole chatroom either. Whatever it is, it’s bound to be rubbish!”

I Had A Dream

I had a dream last night – perhaps someone could explain it for me; I can’t remember the details of all of it but..... no, wait a minute, I can! Even though it was an unfinished story in my sleep, I can actually remember everything that happened in it – so I take that back. It is the morning after and I am writing (yes, writing!) this in my A6 Handy Jotter (50 sheets, Wide Ruled, 25p, 5 for a £1) with something called ink – a new invention, I believe; anyway, it seems to work. I am writing because I am having to dispense real ale to the local populace at the pub’s Easter Beer Festival and I don’t have access to my compluter. Ah, yes! The dream. Well, I was just emerging from the hospital in Winchester (It was definitely Winchester - don't ask me why). I say ‘the’ because I remember being imbued with an overwhelming sense of its – well – mainness, as opposed to an institution which would only be likely to earn the prefix ‘sub’. I don’t actually know if there is a major hospital in Winchester! Anyway, my emergency from the hospital had taken place (see what I did there?) and, apparently, it was just after midnight. I needed to get a bus back to Ringwood and, just as that thought struck me, one pulled up alongside me and the driver opened his window, smiling knowingly. I say ‘knowingly’ because something told my subconscious he was well aware of my destination. “There are still buses,” he said, “they go through Numpkeith, Turdlebridge and Goonhandle.” Yes, I’ve never heard of them either. So I was quite anxious to establish whether these buses bothered to carry on to Ringwood after arriving at and possibly sampling the fleshpots of Numpkeith et al. The driver promptly leapt from his seat and headed down the road at a rate of knots – walking backwards. I was desperately trying to keep up with him, but he was always irritatingly out of earshot. When a café hove into view, he turned to walk forwards and dashed in; I managed to catch sight of him joining some kind of queue inside. I chased after him and found myself running around a metal perimeter barrier which surrounded a large wooden-floored area, almost like a ballroom, but which contained a long snaking line of customers. I spotted the bus driver’s uniform and leapt over the barrier, heading towards it. In the meantime, the driver, situated about halfway along the queue, had changed into an old woman. In my dreamificational state of mind, this seemed quite a normal state of affairs and, as such, occasioned no surprise whatsoever. Suddenly, three security guards started yelling and gesticulating at me quite violently, in an effort to stop me from pushing in. I tried to shout that I was simply trying to speak to someone in the queue but, as you might guess, these words were refused audible utterance – a common ploy of the Dreamweaver Bastard! Then one of the security guards caught up with me; he was 3 feet 6 inches tall and shaped like a pear and, when he started raining punches on my midriff, it didn’t hurt………. Now, that’s about all I can remember but, although the nature of her involvement is not entirely clear to me, I am positive that a naked blonde lady figured in it somehow. Well, it was just a dream, after all! Go in peace, my friends, if only to Goonhandle and no further!

Overbeerification

I must just write this little blogette to report that I spent a very pleasant evening in the company of a well-known Swedish monarch and the lovely Loretta in the best pub in the New Forest last night. Much Tanglefoot was consumed – well, not by Lorry – she was driving and was confined to shandy and coke. But I now know why it’s called Tanglefoot – on the way home, it did indeed tangle my foot, well, both of them, actually! Hooray for beer and non-hangoverishness!

French Leave

You’ve heard of shark-infested waters, haven’t you? Well, not being an expert in semantics, I don’t know whether you can have a nostalgia-infested blog. Nostalgia can pervade, I feel, but can it be said to infest? I really don’t know (or care, actually) but, long before I knew what a blog was, I used to dutifully record my exploits in France, where we have spent many a happy holiday. So the events I commence to describe actually happened several years ago, but many emotions have caused their resurrection to consciousness, not only nostalgia. At the end of June in this particular year, I spent a week in a restored 18th Century country manor house in deepest Normandy with My Line Manager, her cousin and his girl-friend. The nearest town was Falaise (some 15km distant), the birthplace of William the Conqueror (or William the Bastard as he was more commonly called by his contemporaries, because of his illegitimacy; to King Harold and his army at Pevensey Bay, Hastings, in 1066, he was actually known as William the Right Bastard). • Pertinent Fact No.1: the Cousin had been beset with serious back problems for several years and had recently retired on health grounds • Pertinent Fact No. 2: I had taken delivery of a brand spankingly new car two weeks before The Diary Wot I Kept Tuesday 0600: Tearful farewells involving M (7), A (15) and temporary guardian, Grandma. These were pointedly one-sided. 1645: Eventually arrived at house, having experienced some difficulty with the directions provided. As we did not bring a protractor, we were unsure which right-turn was at 45 degrees to the road we were on. 1800: Having unpacked, went to nearest supermarket for vital supplies, i.e. swig and burgers. When we returned to the car, one of the front tyres was punctured and I had to change the wheel in extreme heat and violent swearificational conditions. Daily Car Fact: An irritating rattling noise is emanating from the rear end. Wednesday A stream runs through the garden and there is a pond with several geese and a duck on the land next door. The leader of the geese is a vicious creature called Vlad (all right, all right, but it should have been) which constantly hisses at the Cousin. It is lucky a fence separates them from us. DCF: Today, the handle on the outside of the driver’s door broke and I now have to wait while someone opens it from inside before I can get in. Thursday Found a tyre repair depot after making enquiries at tourist information office in Falaise. With fingers crossed behind my back, realising that a conversation in French between me and anyone else about puncture repairs and garages had little chance of achieving a successful outcome, I asked the girl behind the counter (in French) if she spoke English; then things began to look up. She was from Shropshire. Resultant visit to tyre depot very successful. However, had I remembered the French word for ‘invoice’, much time would have been saved. DCF: Rattle from rear of car has become a clank. Friday Picked up repaired tyre. DCF: The clank has worsened but is intermittent so is regarded alternately with annoyance and anxiety. Saturday The Cousin sat on one of the plastic garden chairs and a leg snapped off; his back condition was hardly improved by this; neither was his fall from halfway up the highly slippery stone stairs later that evening. DCF: The strap used to pull the back seat up (to fold down the seats for more storage space) tore off. Sunday Returned from a day out when MLM noticed only one brake light working. While the Cousin was trying to replace the defective bulb, he dropped the new bulb and holder down inside the car body, from where it was impossible to retrieve. DCF: Now only driving in daylight, trying desperately to avoid braking. Monday The bad luck is rubbing off on local residents: one of the cows on the adjoining (apparently unoccupied) property got stuck up the narrow stone staircase leading to a side door. Unsure of the correct procedure for reorientation of livestock in confined spaces (the creature seemed incapable of descending the steps backwards), I took its picture and went indoors. About half an hour later, it had disappeared, leaving a seriously bent guard rail and steaming physical evidence of the anxiety it must have been experiencing. DCF: The clank is no better and, today, the plastic insert surrounding the driver’s internal door handle fell out. Tuesday Returned home to find M full of elation that Grandma, The Vegetable Enforcer, was going back to Manchester the following day. DCF: The steering-wheel lock has stopped working. Happy days!

The rain in Spain......

Stayed mainly on the plane….. the one back to Blighty, that is, because, you see, I’ve just come back from a three-day break in the south-east of Spainland where, though a trifle nippy, it was gorgeously clear and sunny the whole time.

On the outward journey, I snapped this piccie of the starboard engine whilst balancing precariously on the wing. It was perishing, particularly as I was starkers, but I needed to get into practice for the *waggles a pair of fingers either side of head* Gallery.

We stayed in a hotel in Girona which was superb duperb and provided loads of up-to-date amenities, including this, which I think must be for important business calls.

I didn’t need to make any – at least not for work-related purposes.

Most of Tuesday was spent in Barcelona, strolling down Las Ramblas, which was beknackering but full of quaint and fascinating people, many of whom just stood about doing… er, well… mongoose all, actually. Look at this piccie - I don’t think the poor bloke on the left had had anything to eat for a couple of years.

And what’s all this Catalan stuff? I mean, I used to know a bit of Spanish (and, to my horror, discovered that I had forgotten too much of it to feel altogether comfortable while I was there this time) but no-one speaks it in the area – they speak Catalan; I ask you! If you made a bit of a cock-up with your Spanish and asked for a “sandwich de cheeso”, at least there’s a slim chance they thought you had said “queso” (the proper Spanish for the good old fermented curd); but you’re certainly not going to dredge up “fromatge” from any linguistic database that might be stored in your brain-box. Even the road signs are in two different languages – no wonder there are so many accidents over there! Incidentally, these are generally caused by proper Spanish speakers because their versions appear second, and by the time they’ve read it – splat!

When we got to the bottom of Las Ramblas, this was the view which regaled us, but I am afraid I could not rise to the challenge to take the funicular – I am, not to put too fine a point on it, sh*t-scared of heights!

Anyhoo, my line manager was exhausted, and we rested but a short while before realising, with great pleasure, that there was a Metro station within spitting distance which took us back to RENFE and Estacion Barcelona-Sants, where we entrained for the return to Girona.

Anyway, it was a nice break but not long enough. Actually, we were horrified at the cost of the flights – not too bothered about 99p each for the outward journey, but £1.49 for the return – scandalous!

Hasta la vista, babies!

Depression

I want to elaborate on a blog comment I recently made concerning depression. An ex-colleague of mine who was extremely likeable and one of the most efficient people I ever met in local government, and who also seemed one of the most stable blokes around, was off for several months with depression. When he eventually came back (after 7 months), he sat down with me one day and explained in some detail what had happened to him and, particularly, how he had felt on the day he left the Town Hall immediately prior to his sustained absence. This had been, by the way, on Christmas Eve, and followed a roistering jollificational celebration at a local restaurant with all of the staff in his section, and which he had appeared to thoroughly enjoy. On the way home, he said, it was all he could do not to drive into a tree in an attempt to relieve himself and everyone else of his pointless existence. I was very shocked and moved by this. He said he felt as if he was in a tunnel with no exit at the other end – he was worthless to his family and to his employers – as far as he was concerned, he was a waste of space and was breathing air designated for others more deserving. I hovered on the brink of understanding this and abhorred the tossers who said "Oh yeah, he's off with depression - pfff! We’re all depressed here, but we’re still bloody well here, aren't we!" Unthinking, unfeeling bastards! I might have even ended up somewhere there or thereabouts when I was off for 7 months with hypertension a couple of years ago. I was only too happy for my GP to keep signing me off, but maybe that was because I didn't want to cope with the stress; I certainly felt guilty because I didn't seem to be able to and felt I had let everyone down - I don’t know. But *they* let me go last year and I’m now enjoying work again! And I've met loads of new friends. You know who you are, and I'm very grateful. Good night!