tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-93384402024-03-23T18:04:31.604+00:00Frankly, my dear, I'm quite keen...A collection of miscellaneous thoughts, tales from true life and other bits and bobs; but don't compare me with Rhett Butler, because he couldn't be arsed, apparently...NigelHhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18345933070984848820noreply@blogger.comBlogger192125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9338440.post-15068484089655885322014-01-11T11:02:00.002+00:002014-01-19T15:50:16.409+00:00There was an old person from Hants...<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Just in case you may have read this blog in the past and might be remotely interested, I have started a new one devoted to limericks. Click <a href="http://www.hantsbluepants.blogspot.com/">here</a> to descend into the madness. </span>NigelHhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18345933070984848820noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9338440.post-66673279735299677632013-02-03T10:51:00.001+00:002013-02-03T10:51:58.259+00:00Another exciting game wot I made up<br />
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<span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif";">Remember
the game I invented, ooh, a couple of hundred years ago? You know, the <a href="http://loisintheforest.blogspot.co.uk/2005/09/much-more-elaborate-purposeful-and.html">Much More Elaborate, Purposeful And Fulfilling Number Plate Spotting Than That Other Not Clever Or Anything Rubbish Version</a> (<i>i.e.
</i>Spotting Car Number Plates By Starting At One). Well, here's one you can
play without moving off your settee, as long as you have Sky TV and access to
its electronical programme guide.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I
spotted the fun potential quite a long time ago but, although almost my entire family
are very familiar with (and unsurprisingly quite exasperated by) the concept, I
think there are exciting possibilities, as you will soon see.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I'll
give you some examples and you will imagine the hilarity that ensues when a
group of people visualise what's missing from the title of the programme and
call out their suggestions – it's a bit like the missing words round on </span><i style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Have I Got News For You</i><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">. When you bring
up the Programme Guide on the TV screen, sometimes the names of the programmes
are too long to appear in full and only the first part is displayed followed by
a few dots. All you have to do is surmise the name of the programme armed with
just a segment of it. Over the course of the last few weeks, I've been scanning
the listings for suitable candidates for treatment.</span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif";">Christmas Day with Ale… </span></b><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif";">A perfectly reasonable idea, you
might think, and there's really no need to suggest that there may be anything
missing from such an admirable statement until you realise with horror when
selecting the programme that it's Christmas Day with Ale<b>d Jones</b>. *shudder*<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif";">The Librarian – The C… </span></b><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif";">This surely had the makings of a
particularly boring documentary about the<b>
…</b>C<b>hap who collects and issues your
library books</b>; an admirable calling, of course, but hardly a topic for peak
time seasonal viewing. To my relief, it was another of those Indiana Jones type
thrillers: The Librarian – The C<b>urse of
the Judas Chalice</b>. It’s got Noah Wyle off ER and everything.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif";">The Sheriffs are C… </span></b><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif";">I would dearly love to elaborate
upon the possibilities here but children are watching; they always used to be C<b>owboys</b>, of course. Damn! They're C<b>oming</b>, apparently.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif";">Sun, Sex and Suspicious Pa… </span></b><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif";">Given the content of this show, it really
ought to be <b>Pant-stains</b> but,
somewhat disappointingly and, I suppose, inevitably, it's Pa<b>rents</b>.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif";">Nursing th… </span></b><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif";">I did think this might have been another
one of those cringeworthy documentaries about young Brits in Ibiza acting like
idiots, casting off their inhibitions and, frequently, their underwear, being
very unkind to their livers and very kind to the bank balances of the owners of
bars and clubs, nursing th…<b>e Mother of
all Hangovers </b>practically every day. Instead of which, it’s a much more
delightful televisual offering looking at the work of district nurses, called Nursing
th<b>e Nation</b>. Hurrah, for a change!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif";">The Treasures of Ancient R… </span></b><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif";">Apparently there are no treasures of
any appreciable interest from ancient Reading, Rotherham, or even Ragged
Appleshaw, Hampshire (N51.23 W01.55, SU3148). Of course, you knew it was R…<b>ome</b>, didn’t you?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif";">Get
the idea? Now, the rules are simple. As you’re likely to be the sole
participant (I usually am), you’ll earn points for all your suggestions, unless
some disgruntled member of your family turns off the television and goes to
bed. You won’t even be able to carry on playing by yourself as they will have
taken the remote control with them. And, just to make sure, they’ll switch off
the electricity supply*. Some folk are real spoilsports. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 8.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">*<i>I’m not sure how
they do it but they turn 3G off as well.<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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NigelHhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18345933070984848820noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9338440.post-25748916522518612902013-01-29T11:50:00.000+00:002013-01-29T11:50:57.458+00:00More than a tea dance<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiA_4llYUNSF0yNrYhcnTqwypjgZAfnFiYvLCcU7Z6mKXkfFZ2YAZcNsUmP16VukR5yuOUOyqmuZfvitJWK_toiwaKMLv7BCXeQkkOZX2gcu8DdrgvzYBX-cbY5NLo1O2BBGyB_/s1600/stripping-pensioners.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="76" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiA_4llYUNSF0yNrYhcnTqwypjgZAfnFiYvLCcU7Z6mKXkfFZ2YAZcNsUmP16VukR5yuOUOyqmuZfvitJWK_toiwaKMLv7BCXeQkkOZX2gcu8DdrgvzYBX-cbY5NLo1O2BBGyB_/s320/stripping-pensioners.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Tahoma;">This is an extract from a letter in a recent
edition of <i>Metro</i>. When I first read
it, I found myself in a <i>melange</i> of
emotions: shock and disgust at the revelation that there are, seemingly, many
old folk who, because of the straitened circumstances in which they find
themselves, are reduced to taking off their clothes to earn money for
necessaries, wonder at the fact there may be an audience out there that
relishes this wholesale degradation of a vulnerable section of society, and,
after the righteous indignation subsided, concern that the old dears are being adequately
compensated for the humiliation of displaying their week's ironing to the
perverts of the parish and that they are managing their self-assessment tax
returns. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Tahoma;">Perhaps the government has at last realised that,
by paying special allowances to the wrinkled ecdysiasts, it demonstrates a
tacit acceptance of this vile and exploitative industry, and so have decided to
have a long hard look at them. The allowances, that is, not the performances. That
would be above and beyond.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Tahoma;">Right, off to Westminster we go. Chant loudly
after me: <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Tahoma;">"What do we want?" <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Tahoma;">"FAIR PAY." <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Tahoma;">"When do we want it?"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Tahoma;">"WHAT?"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Tahoma;">I don't know why I bother.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
NigelHhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18345933070984848820noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9338440.post-56546220791229606182012-07-05T20:52:00.000+01:002012-07-05T20:52:02.235+01:00Headlines<br />
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">You know, I really shouldn't allow myself to have
idle moments because they enable me to drift off into a dangerous reverie
fuelled by pedantry. I suppose, in a way, it's inevitable given my
idiosyncratic obsession with the English language and its vagaries.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">One of the many futile exercises which occupy my mind from time to time is trying to guess what news headlines REALLY mean. Not those
ones in The Sun, some of which make you
want to take up a cudgel and break the limbs of innocent passers‑by (in a rather
perverse way, I almost admire some of them – not that I couldn't write better
ones, obviously), but the summaries in about 24 point font you see above an
actual story. It's very easy to deliberately misinterpret it and write a
completely different summary of the story. I can see you're straining at the
leash for examples, aren't you? Whatever. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></b></div>
<b style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Villas-Boas named Tottenham Boss</span></span></b><br />
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<i><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">(BBC
Sport)<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Levy: "Good morning, André. Welcome to the
interview. Please sit down."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">AVB: "Thank you, I'd rather crouch here and
keep my mac on."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Levy: "Very well. I have an important
question for you. Who was the manager we sacked recently?"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">AVB: "Harry Redknapp."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Levy: "Well done, you've got the job!"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Apple settles China iPad case<o:p></o:p></span></span></b></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">(BBC
News)<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The opportunities here are endless. It ought to be
the strange story of the man who bought a hard case made of porcelain for his
iPad and foolishly sat under an apple tree in windy weather with the trusty
device by his side. As predicted by dear old Isaac Newton all those years ago,
an apple fell from the tree and smashed the fragile cover to smithereens.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: 14pt;">Katie Holmes braves split from
Tom Cruise</span></b><b><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></b></span></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">(Daily
Express)<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Apparently, as a wedding present, Katie gave Tom
some Red Indian servants and, as well as carrying out traditional duties, they were
experts in the provision of vital services like scalp treatment and
face-painting; also, Tom frequently ate at the best restaurants and they were extraordinarily
good at making reservations. However, they all fancied Katie and reluctantly
went with Cruise when the couple moved apart. Also, they were bitterly opposed
to Scientology, constantly accusing L Ron Hubbard of having spoken with a
forked tongue. So they resigned <i>en masse</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">A source close to Cruise said "Tom's not
really bothered as they used to hold a staff disco every Friday night and it
never bloody stopped raining, even though it was dry everywhere else in the
County." <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I'm a hopeless case. Still, at least it's a blog.</span></div>NigelHhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18345933070984848820noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9338440.post-19880323331678487712012-03-25T23:44:00.000+01:002012-03-25T23:44:34.901+01:00Complete and utter iWash<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOQd6PrsJxaCu2au0y9wmA1wuLFhfUpGWFQoxwmWgrBNX8l85wqP8W7G3sbqo0fm2LWZCxEWnfVUKWvWip7PGC37vOb8n9N9CrnRLHajuaD0AfqUlvCebdsX-W1W6Mio6FI4B6/s1600/phone_bog.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOQd6PrsJxaCu2au0y9wmA1wuLFhfUpGWFQoxwmWgrBNX8l85wqP8W7G3sbqo0fm2LWZCxEWnfVUKWvWip7PGC37vOb8n9N9CrnRLHajuaD0AfqUlvCebdsX-W1W6Mio6FI4B6/s1600/phone_bog.jpg" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif";">I'm not sure if I've mentioned
the disaster which befell my brand new iPhone in a bathroom-based incident a
while ago, after I'd had it barely a week - which just goes to show the
verisimilitude of the statistic pointed out to me by several <s>piss-takers</s>
well-wishers that two of the most common forms of damage caused to iPhones is the
screen cracking and that occasioned by submersion in water. Mine fell into the *ahem*
latter category.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif";">And no, I didn't
undertake the immersion-in-a-pouch-of-rice treatment afterwards; I was too
upset and actually quite concerned that
a family member might find it and think it was a boil-in-the-bag ready
meal, thus making matters even worse.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif";">Smarting from the
incident, I wandered around the house in a daze, wondering what iniquitous deed
I had perpetrated in my past which had rendered me deserving of such a harsh gadgetry-related
punishment. Suddenly, I remembered; in an episode of that top comedy show The
IT Crowd, precisely the same thing had happened to one of the main characters (Moss),
after he had put his phone in that most conveniently placed of locations, the
top shirt pocket – and I had laughed out loud. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif";">My tweet to the
show's writer Graham Linehan, demanding compensation, elicited no response, so
I turned my attention to my buildings and contents insurance, administered by
a certain company from whom I could possibly have obtained a claim form in
person if I had bothered to take the 20½-hour journey via Brittany Ferries from
Plymouth. No, there isn't a prize.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif";">My first telephone conversation
was with a very friendly and helpful young lady who, I realised after a
subsequent conversation with another equally helpful young lady four days later
(which was on the Friday afternoon), had done absolutely nothing she had
promised, i.e. passed the matter to the company who dealt with damage repairs
on their behalf. So the second young
lady made the same promise and, all things considered, I couldn't help feeling
rather pessimistic about the outcome. However, I had a call within a couple of
hours, giving me a reference number and informing me that DPD would be
collecting the phone for repair or replacement on the Monday, between 9.00am
and 6.30pm. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif";">I had a text message
on Monday morning saying that the phone would be collected - bizarrely -
between 12.18pm and 1.18pm! It was therefore with a strange but totally unfounded
disappointment that I welcomed the DPD bloke at 12.21pm.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif";">The company dealing
with the phone had told me it was repairable and would be returned via Royal
Mail within 7 to 10 working days. Given that Royal Mail make a habit of doing
things like ditching the first-class post, conveniently forgetting to tell everyone
about it, and bearing in mind the onset of Christmas mail, I was not all that
optimistic.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif";">Anyway, to cut a long
story short, I was forced to make four more telephone calls, the repairing
company decided the phone couldn't be mended, the insurer coughed up the full
amount for a new replacement (less £35 excess) and, as soon as the dosh
appeared in my bank account, I hastened down to the nearest iPhone merchant and
bought one.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif";">I'd had a Blackberry
for almost three years (which my employer provided) but I finally decided
enough was enough (I hated it) and that, after a good deal of research, I was
desperate to have an iPhone. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif";">Hey! An Apple
turnover.*<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: justify;">
<i><span style="font-family: "Verdana","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">*</span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">I'll
get me coat</span><span style="font-size: 9pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></i></div>NigelHhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18345933070984848820noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9338440.post-86561450298148694452012-03-12T12:07:00.000+00:002012-03-16T00:14:21.657+00:00Essence<div align="justify" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt;">That word commands rather a lengthy entry in my <i>Oxtail Dictionary of Words & Phrases With Which Is Incorporated Latin Words & Phrases and New Words Introduced Into the English Language. </i>It is simply a feature of speech which unfortunately achieves prominence if you have to wear dentures. This may be part of the natural degenerative process through advancing years or the inevitable consequence of a lack of tooth care - if you choose to believe Pam Ayres – but, however it happens, ensure you acquire some decent ones, or you should avoid singing Gracie Fields' famous song <i>The Biggest Aspidistra In The World</i>, attempting tongue twisters like 'she sells seashells on the seashore', Edgar Allan Poe's <i>The Raven</i> (or, at least, the line that begins "And the silken sad uncertain rustling…"), if you don't want to keep being asked at the Christmas party for a rendition of the <i>Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs</i>' song <i>"Whistle While You Work", </i>or <i>Pinocchio's "Give A Little Whistle" </i>or constantly being given the cards in Charades for <i>The Old Grey Whistle Test</i>, <i>Whistle Down The Wind</i>, <i>The Whistle Blower</i>, <i>Fried Green Tomatoes at the Whistle Stop Café</i>, and, last but by no means least, the memorable 1968 film from the well-known Filipino director Consuelo Osorio, based on the story by Mars Ravelo, <i>Ngitngit ng Pitong Whistle Bomb</i>. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt;">Imagine if Lauren Bacall's immortal lines as Marie "Slim" Browning in <i>To Have And Have Not </i> had to be changed because poor old Bogie was a sufferer: "You know how to whistle, don't you, Steve? You just <s>put your lips together and blow</s> jam in the false gnashers and say 'ipsissimus'."<i><sup><o:p></o:p></sup></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt;">Notable proponents of this occupational hazard are John Craven (currently appearing on the BBC's <i>Countryfile</i>) and Sir David Attenborough (currently appearing in most nature programmes on several channels and the BBC's more and more annoyingly frequent ITV-style interludes advertising its current and upcoming offerings). <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt;">I count myself very lucky that I am in the position of not knowing if all dentures exhibit this irritating tendency but, if I were John or Sir Dave*, I'd consult the BBC Props Department. Michael Parkinson (currently reduced to TV commercials for insurance) appears to have the problem beaten, although he can't read the auto-cue without it looking totally obvious that's what he's doing. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt;">Geoffrey Palmer is a very good actor, isn't he?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt;"><br />
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><i>*polite informality</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>NigelHhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18345933070984848820noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9338440.post-46315149031221852392011-08-19T16:38:00.000+01:002012-03-15T00:03:37.266+00:00Road Observations (leaving Rage for another day)<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikYhKxc8eYtbgeGedH1-gd_ykdXWI-7DxgLXMHTEijZKLzVFGeyvPUD7bVYj6ibPHjhPEiZBqoG2no8iWbuD_z9y9LvaCDbur7I4qMwx2QpQs7fP8DuH7telAijLlOd0hFmJKC/s1600/m6_stoke.jpg"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikYhKxc8eYtbgeGedH1-gd_ykdXWI-7DxgLXMHTEijZKLzVFGeyvPUD7bVYj6ibPHjhPEiZBqoG2no8iWbuD_z9y9LvaCDbur7I4qMwx2QpQs7fP8DuH7telAijLlOd0hFmJKC/s320/m6_stoke.jpg" /></a></span> <span style="font-size: small;"><br /> </span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">You will all be familiar with (and, no doubt by now, totally hacked off by) my ramblings about road travel, particularly <i>via </i>the M6; the notorious section just before Junction 15 to Stoke‑on‑Trent and Newcastle‑under‑Lyme is pictured above with, I think I’m right in saying, most of the traffic somewhat disingenuously Photoshopped out. I just can’t help it, though, no more than the motorway itself can help being in league with the Devil – if you ask me (though I know you won’t) it should be called the M666 (or, if you are a pedantic devotee of QI, the M616) but giving one of England’s main cross‑country arteries a bad name is not my current purpose - not this time, anyway.<br /><br />Some people might think that, whilst driving north and south up and down the highways and byways of the country, all I do is spend my time thinking about what vitriol I can pen in my next highway-related diatribe, and that’s why I have to get Sheila to read out the Daily Telegraph crossword clues several times before properly taking them in. No, no, not at all, I can’t hear them because of the ambient noise of the radio coupled with the constant hum of tyre on road (that’s what I tell her anyway). We finished both crosswords on the way up on Monday, but only one and a half on the way back on Tuesday (I think I had the radio on louder and possibly some more decent resurfacing is required on the southward leg). </span> <span style="font-size: small;"><br /><br />The following are simply observations on one or two new initiatives introduced by my very good friends at the Highways Agency (HA) and spotted during our latest trip – quite uneventful as it turned out, except for a new half-hour programme we watched on Monday night, <i>The Sergio Aguero Show</i>, a feature that I hope to be repeated on a regular basis.</span> <span style="font-size: small;"><br /><br />The signs which used to say: “Queue Ahead” now read: “Queue Caution” – this has been done, apparently, as too many motorists had been regarding the former as an instruction. </span> <span style="font-size: small;"><br /><br />The HA has also instigated new signs at several locations which say: “Bin Your Litter – Other People Do”. The first three words are an admirable suggestion but their effectiveness is considerably lessened by virtue of the accompanying statement which is based, in my view, upon the thinnest evidence. Rather, they ought to say: “Bin Your Litter Even Though Most People Don’t And The Bins At Motorway Services Get So Full That They Quickly Become A Health Hazard What With All The Rubbish Blowing Around The Car Park And Everything Not To Mention Wasps Etc”. I suppose if the signs were too lengthy, everyone would have to slow down considerably or even park up to read them. In which case, maybe they could give us advance warning by changing the signs at appropriate intervals to read “Queue Ahead To Read Next Sign”. </span> <span style="font-size: small;"><br /><br />Right, how many words in the answer to 12 down? Sorry? What? </span></span> </div>NigelHhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18345933070984848820noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9338440.post-25971127285450656322011-07-02T11:31:00.000+01:002011-07-02T11:31:19.615+01:00Driving me mad<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">After due deliberation, I have come to the conclusion that I am a jam magnet. Before you run away with the idea that, in some strange way, I attract fruit spread, let me disavow you of this misapprehension with the following relevant definitions for ‘jam’ from Dictionary.com: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">to fill or block up by crowding; pack or obstruct; to make (something) unworkable by causing parts to become stuck, blocked, caught, displaced;</i> and - probably the most relevant - <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">a mass of objects, vehicles, etc., packed together or otherwise unable to move except slowly.</i> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">You may or may not have read the sad account of one of my many journeys north-westward when the M6 jumped out from behind a clear road and made me take almost four hours to travel just 20 miles. Well, I am now proud to announce that I was once a participant in the greatest M60 Manchester Ring Road snarl-up in living memory. The traffic lady on the local radio was delivering the news in a most inappropriately gleeful manner, in my humble opinion, saying that she had never seen the like: apparently, the whole circular route had been a massive car park for most of the afternoon. I would therefore dispute the ‘move slowly’ bit of the last part of the dictionary entry above as it engenders an entirely false impression that movement was a regular feature of the affair.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">I had travelled from Manchester (where we were spending a few days away from Hants with rellies) to Merseyside for a meeting with a colleague, and this vehicular melée was the culmination of a wonderful day on rain-sodden roads (one stretch of the M56 was far better suited for water-skiing) that included a stop-start excursion through the centre of Liverpool (where, incidentally, I had never driven before) and a surreal episode with my satnav in the Wallasey Tunnel. I was understandably surprised to see my journey under the great River Mersey depicted on its screen all the way through (quite often it goes blank when I drive under a tree) and I assumed that there must have been some sort of signal boosting equipment installed in it (more damned electrickery, you can't get away from it). I did wonder why, though, as soon as I emerged into the open from the tunnel towards the toll booths, it told me the satellite signal had been lost!<br />
<br />
Pretty much par for the course that day.</span></div>NigelHhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18345933070984848820noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9338440.post-90575044724432224122011-06-20T17:22:00.001+01:002011-06-20T18:24:02.066+01:00Henners' Day<div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;">On Sunday 19th June, one year and one day after the sad passing of a famous parish nuisance, some of us met up in darkest Surrey to commemorate the event and to visit his very first geocache and where his ashes are laid. By the time we got to within 10 or 12 feet of the spot (according to Omally's GPS), I had been o'er many a hill and dale and was well and truly knackered. So was this poor little creature:-</span></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicI7gPGhORJk5sGHpYI_r5oaMeH1IbaD7EvM66d_D30VJA24ujBNjzECeeJdWElk4lN4ODwSgL5QGBIZcMqqwEm54sytX1KK3AJPTp-O5pUkbSizESaqAYLxTkebtfs4RLS-Fd/s1600/IMG_0499.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicI7gPGhORJk5sGHpYI_r5oaMeH1IbaD7EvM66d_D30VJA24ujBNjzECeeJdWElk4lN4ODwSgL5QGBIZcMqqwEm54sytX1KK3AJPTp-O5pUkbSizESaqAYLxTkebtfs4RLS-Fd/s320/IMG_0499.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><br />
No, no, not Jan - Daisy! And despite my obvious physical distress, Jan flatly refused to cuddle me on her lap while <u><b>I</b></u> had a kip.</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><strike>For about an hour</strike> At first, we were unable to locate the sacred spot despite much circular non-environmental thrashing about in the undergrowth - well, it was deep in the woods, hidden among the head-high ferns. And there was me thinking Ned and Marco Polo had been soul mates. </div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkI7knpt-UdnuBz5kptt76JIh9LXiCT-y_bLa7b8ebWiXjTeHAUu1dEFp_ZTmH9EWIdN-riZlGfZjD6EoZ7XN1oOlvkELbVxN9xv-2czwOxqeouN9qQ9bZTinGwoqFYJR__aYF/s1600/IMG_0500.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkI7knpt-UdnuBz5kptt76JIh9LXiCT-y_bLa7b8ebWiXjTeHAUu1dEFp_ZTmH9EWIdN-riZlGfZjD6EoZ7XN1oOlvkELbVxN9xv-2czwOxqeouN9qQ9bZTinGwoqFYJR__aYF/s320/IMG_0500.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><div style="text-align: justify;">No, Ned - the ground's by your feet - tchoh! Also, I think this was one of the moments when we had to snap Hutters out of his obvious fixation for the forest floor in the region of my right leg and point him in a particular direction whilst reminding him how to move his legs alternately. I swear I could hear Henry guffawing on more than one occasion. Wanna see a good scowl? The geographical challenge was causing desperation to set in:-</div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1oxUsx9qHkgcJ17e2UVi-pRuRfIyXDOIOl5ZTBTFGum8hfsdQoYqkiETP4wJ6rgV7ShA8ttcDnhzlGD4c7cWOe0h6ckaxazHbqchYt3paClWYTabPyObhztwO6uY3JYl2xfNr/s1600/IMG_0502.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1oxUsx9qHkgcJ17e2UVi-pRuRfIyXDOIOl5ZTBTFGum8hfsdQoYqkiETP4wJ6rgV7ShA8ttcDnhzlGD4c7cWOe0h6ckaxazHbqchYt3paClWYTabPyObhztwO6uY3JYl2xfNr/s320/IMG_0502.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
All of a sudden, Hutters uttered a 'Eureka'-type exclamation and there it was, about two feet from where I had been standing (or trying to stand without my leg seizing up) for a good half an hour! <br />
<br />
Unfortunately, the birch sapling that was originally planted hadn't lasted, so we planted an Acer (Orange Dream variety, I was reliably informed by the label) next to the small wooden cross. Well, I say we, Omally did all the digging with his very own trowel, brought specially for the purpose. Hutters' joke about an Acer spade was beginning to wear a bit thin after the third or fourth time. Here's the plant which we hope will flourish:-</div></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuOT3JItIlPcL176LwjAkPseKcxaO7kvsY3EGEa_it1zxbkX5r6hlK-dswh2mOSnBCsAusflXy5P7uvhwDMaxCJVcSXHGpsvawdWRvl5kGpz8Tgn5hQy5vIt_dYVG9hxkoO8_B/s1600/IMG_0507.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuOT3JItIlPcL176LwjAkPseKcxaO7kvsY3EGEa_it1zxbkX5r6hlK-dswh2mOSnBCsAusflXy5P7uvhwDMaxCJVcSXHGpsvawdWRvl5kGpz8Tgn5hQy5vIt_dYVG9hxkoO8_B/s320/IMG_0507.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Hutters did the honours and read the very moving pome by Canon Henry Scott-Holland, "Death is nothing at all", which you can read <a href="http://skdesigns.com/internet/articles/prose/holland/death/">here </a>and cry a bit as well, if you are so inclined.</div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-DRiKCDwmb3yLnRdk4kO_UQZif2AVoL_LETyqePXpP3USVXycrqiXRtCUKjjCo5eYZDdmUe3Sr4owl6ID_za1KGKoXBZPLJxPabkxsQpMcibBllU8hXwz8nwC2uX6YcaZeQZ0/s1600/IMG_0508.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-DRiKCDwmb3yLnRdk4kO_UQZif2AVoL_LETyqePXpP3USVXycrqiXRtCUKjjCo5eYZDdmUe3Sr4owl6ID_za1KGKoXBZPLJxPabkxsQpMcibBllU8hXwz8nwC2uX6YcaZeQZ0/s320/IMG_0508.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
All in all, it was a very worthwhile day and my guilt has been a little assuaged for having missed the dear old chap's funeral last year. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">RIP, David.</div></div>NigelHhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18345933070984848820noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9338440.post-20918138565519884332011-06-12T22:43:00.000+01:002011-06-12T22:43:09.009+01:00The Unsocial Network<div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:View>Normal</w:View> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:TrackMoves/> <w:TrackFormatting/> <w:DoNotShowRevisions/> <w:DoNotPrintRevisions/> <w:DoNotShowMarkup/> <w:DoNotShowComments/> <w:DoNotShowInsertionsAndDeletions/> <w:DoNotShowPropertyChanges/> <w:PunctuationKerning/> <w:ValidateAgainstSchemas/> <w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:IgnoreMixedContent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:DoNotPromoteQF/> <w:LidThemeOther>EN-GB</w:LidThemeOther> <w:LidThemeAsian>X-NONE</w:LidThemeAsian> <w:LidThemeComplexScript>X-NONE</w:LidThemeComplexScript> <w:Compatibility> <w:BreakWrappedTables/> <w:SnapToGridInCell/> <w:WrapTextWithPunct/> <w:UseAsianBreakRules/> <w:DontGrowAutofit/> <w:SplitPgBreakAndParaMark/> <w:DontVertAlignCellWithSp/> <w:DontBreakConstrainedForcedTables/> <w:DontVertAlignInTxbx/> <w:Word11KerningPairs/> <w:CachedColBalance/> </w:Compatibility> <m:mathPr> <m:mathFont m:val="Cambria Math"/> <m:brkBin m:val="before"/> <m:brkBinSub m:val="--"/> <m:smallFrac m:val="off"/> <m:dispDef/> <m:lMargin m:val="0"/> <m:rMargin m:val="0"/> <m:defJc m:val="centerGroup"/> <m:wrapIndent m:val="1440"/> <m:intLim m:val="subSup"/> <m:naryLim m:val="undOvr"/> </m:mathPr></w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:LatentStyles DefLockedState="false" DefUnhideWhenUsed="true"
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</style> <![endif]--> </div><div class="Default" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>By and large, I think the internet is one of the most significant and influential innovations of the modern age. You can interface with friends and family wherever in the world they might be, via the written word or live audio/video, you can buy and sell all manner of goods and services, and it is a vast source of information on anything you care to name - even donkey porn. </span></span></div><div class="Default" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div class="Default" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>A lot of the time, though, it just gets on my bloody tripe. </span></span></div><div class="Default" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="Default" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>You are - by which I mean, one is - well, at least, I am – if you’re still with me? - bombarded with e-mails from banks and building societies explaining that your account has been the subject of unusual activity – it would actually be unusual if I used it seeing as I don’t have an account with you – vital security checks requiring confirmation of your PIN and other account details. What can you do to put a cyber spanner in the works of these thieving morons? It’s a great shame there isn’t an option in Outlook to “reply with 5,000 volts”; that’d make their follicles sizzle. Maybe I should reply to them all, helpfully providing my hat/willy size, inside leg measurement and medical history, hoping they’ll eventually get fed up. Fat chance. </span></span></div><div class="Default" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="Default" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>I have recently distanced myself from Farcebollok and disabled my account (it’s not your fault, by the way) – I object to the intrusive, overbearing way it subjects you to an unsolicited barrage of invitations to take part in inane quizzes the results of which are then published to an audience of your friends who are apparently agog with eager anticipation to learn what sort of television set you are (I bet I’m a wide screen) or which member of the cast of ‘Friends’ you would most like to (a) take out to dinner, (b) shag, or (c) punch in the face. No, I’m not going to tell you (although I imagine you could take an educated guess).</span></span></div><div class="Default" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="Default" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>I really don’t want to know that someone has just found a three-legged brown sheep wandering (limping, surely? I am a pedant, after all) around the farm – I’m a tolerant sort of bloke and, if they want to play that game, leave them alone to do so, without a commentary which is best suited to a weak plot line in The Archers. The farmer’s wife going missing and a dismembered body discovered in a grain silo would be infinitely more interesting but I still remain unconvinced that I’d want to know about it.</span></span></div><div class="Default" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="Default" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>Before I’d ever even countenanced going on Farcebollok (the only reason being that, just prior to taking the plunge, I didn’t fully understand how it worked but some friends persuaded me – to join, that is, not that I definitely didn’t know how it worked), I did have a temporary dalliance with MySpace but gradually became disenchanted with the eerie solitude – I believe it’s now known as MyEmptySpace. </span></span></div><div class="Default" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="Default" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>I wonder how long it’ll be before I get fed up with Twitter?!</span></span></div>NigelHhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18345933070984848820noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9338440.post-70785511210338052672011-06-03T22:42:00.001+01:002011-06-04T20:47:30.319+01:00Lege et lacrima II (Read it and weep 2)<div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;"><b><i><span style="font-size: small;">Vah! Denuone Latine loquebar? Me ineptum. Interdum modo elabitur - </span></i></b><i><span style="font-size: small;">Oh! Was I speaking Latin again? Silly me. Sometimes it just sort of slips out. </span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;">I just wanted to remind you of the campaign I first proposed last year <a href="http://loisintheforest.blogspot.com/2010/08/lege-et-lacrima.html">here</a>, in case you had forgotten about it. I’m still keen to revive the so-called dead language and you may remember my outlining the distinct advantages (and some pitfalls, unfortunately) of resurrecting its universal usage.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;">One of the unfortunate advantages (at least from the standpoint of the drive for awareness) is that, on the assumption that he/she is not fluent (as you are) you can be quite rude to or dismissive of someone without them realising. In fact, because, as I have mentioned before, however banal, surreal or outlandish the statement, <i><b>Quid quid latine dictum sit, altum videtur - </b>Anything said in Latin sounds profound.<b> </b></i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;">For example – oops, <b>e.g.</b> - <i><b>Verveces tui similes pro ientaculo mihi appositi sunt</b></i> - <i>I have twits like you for breakfast</i>; <i><b>Tua mater tam antiquior ut linguam latine loquatur</b></i> - <i>Your mother is so old she speaks Latin</i>; <i><b>Sic friatur crustum dulce</b></i> - <i>That's the way the cookie crumbles</i>. Nowhere is it more demonstrable then in phrases such as <i><b>Ubi est mea anaticula cumminosa?</b></i> – <i>Where is my rubber duck?</i> <i><b>Semper ubi sub ubi ubique</b></i> - <i>Always wear underwear everywhere</i>; <i><b>Te audire non possum. Musa sapientum fixa est in aure</b></i> - <i>I can't hear you. I have a banana in my ear</i>; <i><b>Oblitus sum perpolire clepsydras!</b></i> - <i>I forgot to polish the clocks! <b>Omnes lagani pistrinae gelate male sapiunt</b></i> - <i>All frozen pizzas taste lousy</i>; <i><b>In dentibus anticis frustrum magnum spiniciae habes</b></i> - <i>You have a large piece of spinach in your front teeth; <b>Loqueris excrementum</b> - You are talking shit.</i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;">I have considerable support for the renaissance advocated, in the person of the great Roman poet <b>Publius Ovidius Naso</b> (20 March 43 BC – AD 17/18) - Ovid to you – who once said: <i><b>Rident stolidi verba latina</b></i> - <i>Fools laugh at the Latin language</i> - and everyone, but everyone, always used to listen to him. And they still do - you only have to look at any public school <i>curriculum</i> (see? You can’t get away from it). </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;">In my earlier treatise, I suggested that the dialogue in films could be considerably romanticised by speaking them in Latin; I have found a few more examples to bolster this contention: <i><b>Ire fortiter quo nemo ante iit</b></i> - <i>To boldly go where no man has gone before</i>; <i><b>Te capiam, cunicule sceleste!</b></i> - <i>I'll get you, you wascally wabbit!</i> <i><b>Tu, rattus turpis!</b></i> - <i>You dirty rat! <b>Re vera, cara mea, mea nil refert</b></i> - <i>Frankly my dear, I don't give a damn</i>; <i><b>Luke sum ipse patrem te</b></i> - <i>Luke, I am your father</i>; <i><b>Revelare pecunia!</b></i> - <i>Show me the money! <b>Pistrix! Pistrix!</b> - </i><i>Shark! Shark! (shouted in Jaws, surely?); <b>Farrago fatigans!</b> - </i><i>Suffering succotash! <b>Latro! fremo!</b> - </i><i>Woof woof! Grrrr! (Lassie).</i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;">You may remember that jokes relying on the vagaries of the English language don’t work (remember <i>I scream, you scream, we all scream for ice cream</i>?<i>)</i>; well, neither do tongue twisters: <i><b>Quantum silvam modio picus </b><b>si posset picus silvam modio</b><b>?</b></i> - <i>How much wood would a woodpecker peck if a woodpecker could peck wood?</i> <b><i>Pietro Fistulator lectis modii capsicum conditaneum, ubi modii capsicum conditaneum quod lectis Petro Fistulator?</i> </b>– <i>Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled pepper, where’s the peck of pickled pepper Peter Piper picked?</i><b> <i>Corio rubeus, corio flava, corio rubeus, corio flava</i>… </b><i>- Red leather, yellow leather, red leather, yellow leather…</i> <b><i>Vendit concha mare in litum marum</i> </b>– <i>She sells seashells on the seashore; <b>Vigilum publicorum</b></i><b><i> Lethium nos dimitte</i> </b>– <i>The Leith police dismisseth us</i>. See? Almost ridiculously easy to enunciate, I think you’ll agree.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;">Well, there you are, keep practising the lingo <i>(from the Latin <b>lingua</b> - tongue or language)</i>; It’s got a lot to answer for, hasn’t it?</span></div>NigelHhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18345933070984848820noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9338440.post-65086930713470216472011-05-30T17:29:00.000+01:002011-05-30T17:29:23.420+01:00Just when I thought it was safe to go back in the water...<div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Many apologies for the long absence - and for the returning blog being about football and traffic, Trouty - you’ll not be too pleased to learn that there’s more where that came from! Today, after due (and, I have to say, hesitant) deliberation I am bringing you more news of my progress through the long and winding corridors of the NHS. I should also apologise for the length of the piece; I had initially decided to split it into two or even three separate chunks, but then changed my mind <br />
<br />
As part of my continued healthcare, I was invited to have a CAT scan at Salisbury District Hospital (my second home for various parts of 2010). The notification had been sent to me several weeks earlier and informed me that I needed to present myself one hour before the appointed time so I could be given a contrast drink to improve the pictures produced by the scan. I was familiar with this as I had had one last year. It involves sitting around for up to an hour, sipping a milky substance, being bored out of your skull and trying to concentrate on your book, invariably with little success!<br />
<br />
I duly turned up just after 10 a.m., reported to reception and sat in the waiting room. I was so bored, I became enthralled by an episode of Property Ladder. Yes, that bored. At 10.45, the receptionist smiled and said “You were a bit early, weren’t you?” I explained that my letter had instructed me to arrive an hour early for the drink. “Oh,” she replied and strode off purposefully, returning a few minutes later saying that my letter had been sent just before they stopped requiring patients to have the drink! Oh well, the up side of this was that I went to the treatment area fifteen minutes early!<br />
<br />
The CT scan experts among you will know that the initial step is to insert a canular into a convenient vein in order that a dye can be injected during the scan. If you are at all familiar with my veins, you will be only too aware that ‘convenient’ is not a description readily applicable to them: they are either extremely shy or just plain bloody rude, because they just don’t turn up to these parties and no amount of violent skin-slapping encourages an appearance. The nurse gave up after one attempt and took me in to the scan room, saying she had called for a doctor to do the dirty work.<br />
<br />
The six subsequent failures to effect an incursion (three in each arm) showed - statistically at least – that the nurse was significantly less crap at this than the doc. Anyway, the end result was that the whole shebang had to be rescheduled and I left the hospital self-consciously sporting seven bits of transparent sticky plaster and more cotton wool balls than three teddy bears.<br />
<br />
The new appointment was fixed for a week ahead but, in between times, I had a phone call to say that the scanner had broken down and could I turn up two days later than originally planned? So I did and, after three attempts, one was in vein. Ha! See what I did there? After all this hoohah, I saw the oncologist last week who told me that the scan had revealed a small (2cm) growth in my right lung which is almost certainly a cancer but almost certainly removable. <br />
<br />
Now I’ve got to have a PET scan tomorrow at Southampton which will give the medics pictures in glorious Technicolor and 3D to indicate whether the little bugger is the result of a spread or completely new and help them decide the best way to deal with it. This time, I’ve got to be injected with a radioactive liquid; wish me luck with the veins. I wonder if I’ll glow in the dark?<br />
<br />
So, CAT scan, PET scan, presumably a LAB test is next.<br />
<br />
<br />
</span></div>NigelHhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18345933070984848820noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9338440.post-87749258545051521582011-05-29T20:21:00.002+01:002011-06-12T22:45:44.933+01:00Back on THE road again<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">Someone's roused me from my literary slumbers and I've been giving the blog a bit of a short back and sides and</span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"> checking some notes</span><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">. The following should have appeared a couple of months ago, just before we went to see City's game against Reading at Eastlands. Prior to that, I had spent about 10 days in Manchester, taking the air in great frigid trouserfuls, and watching four football matches. I won’t bore you with too much of the detail but I will summarise the team’s performances – v. Aris Thessaloniki: brilliant, v. Fulham: dreadful (2 points chucked away), v. Aston Villa: excellent, v. Wigan: mediocre (but 3 points). The Reading game (FA Cup, sponsored, don’t forget, by E.ON), on Sunday 13<sup>th</sup> March, 4.45pm. Which would bring me to <u>that</u> road again. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><span style="font-size: small;"> </span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">I have previously documented (not here) some quite negative thoughts and views on the M6, but on the various journeys undertaken both north-westward and southward between Thursday 24<sup>th</sup> February and Sunday 6<sup>th</sup> March, I began to feel that I had been cruelly unfair in my criticisms and – to my surprise – realised that I could compile quite a significant list of positive features. So, here is my <b>*</b><i>List Of Things I Like About The M6</i>: </span></span></div><ol><li><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">The eerie emptiness of the stretch between junctions 14 and 16; it almost makes you hanker for the always incredibly congested M6 Toll.</span></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">The inexplicable but comforting friendliness of your fellow road-users which causes them to stay very close (as if they are somehow guarding or protecting you), usually by parking immediately in front of/behind/next to you, but obviously everywhere on the motorway except the section mentioned above.</span></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">The disarmingly amusing and always entertaining messages from our friends at the Highways Agency: ‘Queue Ahead’ (I always obey); ‘M6 Toll Clear’ (liars); ‘End’ (when there appears to have been no ‘Beginning’); ‘40’ (when you are stationary).</span></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">The population of the road between about 7pm and 9pm on a Sunday night by hordes of dedicated motorists, deliberately and selflessly foregoing their normal end‑of‑weekend home comforts just to experience once more the pleasure of sharing the delights of highway congestion with one additional exciting ingredient – darkness. Being a non-working day does not seem to prevent the endearing jams that prevail for about 2 miles before you are due to exit. Marvellous companionship, wouldn’t you agree?</span></span></li>
</ol><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";"> </span><b><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">*</span></b><i><span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif";">may include irony<b> </b></span></i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><span style="font-size: small;"> </span>NigelHhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18345933070984848820noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9338440.post-60224120382154517342011-01-18T08:39:00.008+00:002011-05-29T17:09:00.590+01:00Your usual bed, sir?<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;">I owe you all an account of my recent shenanigans at the behest of the NHS and there follows a summary (somewhat expurgated to avoid Exorcist type vomit being induced) of my merry pre- and post-Christmas horsepiddle holiday.<br />
<br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;">There I was, lunchtime Thursday 9<sup>th</sup> December, lining up a particularly tricky plant into the middle pocket on the White Hart’s pool table, when my phone rang. It was Sheila, saying that the hospital had been in touch – they’d had a cancellation and did I want to go in for my surgery on the Monday (it wasn’t due until sometime this month); errrrm, oh! Anyway, that was all decided (with no little trepidation, I might add) and, probably as a result of this sudden storm in the timetable, missed the shot.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br />
I duly went under the knife on Monday – ileostomy reversed and (unexpected) hernia repaired - and allowed home late Tuesday – marvellous – or so I thought. All went well in the run-up to Christmas (apart from the ambulance a few days afterwards to whisk me back to hospital with yet another few episodes of posterior epistaxis - nosebleed to you - which necessitated another overnight stay – in all the excitement, I nearly forgot about that!) until Boxing Day morning when I realised there was something wrong with the wound; I didn’t think it should have been gushing brown foul-smelling gunge. Back to the hospital, then, and, during the next five days (two of which were a bit like Ray Milland’s Lost Weekend, much of two others spent in theatre), I was treated for a very bad abscess/infection. I came home on New Year’s Eve eve and I’ve seen a nurse every day since then to have the trench in my stomach packed and the dressing changed. Apparently, it’s very clean and healing nicely but I’m saying no more about it so as not to tempt fate!<br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
Oh, and, by the way, when I went to bed at 9.00pm on New Year’s Eve, I told 2010 (rather more succinctly than hereafter described – this is a family audience, after all) that it could go away and have sex with itself.<br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
And a Happy New Year to you all!</span></div>NigelHhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18345933070984848820noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9338440.post-89508855498741977732010-11-04T10:54:00.005+00:002011-05-29T16:56:42.574+01:00When Chris Rea wrote "Road to Hell"...<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: normal;">...he must have been on the M6.<br />
<br />
Earlier this year (in September), we travelled north from deepest Hants to watch the only league club in Manchester (a status to be lost if Oldham Athletic’s plans to move to a new stadium come to fruition) play Liverpool. Although the pleasing outcome to the game did much to lift our flagging spirits, I shuddered at the memory of the trip, and still do. I’m not good travelling at the best of times.<br />
<br />
We left home at 11.15am on a journey which normally takes between 4 and 4½ hours and fondly imagined ourselves checking in at the Oldham Premier Inn (on Broadway, about 15 minutes from Eastlands) at around half-past three, then relaxing for an hour or so before setting off to savour at our leisure (insofar as you can relax with a stoma <b>and</b> a walking stick!) the new delights of City Square (around the outside of the stadium) with its selection of covered bars and cafés, live music and big screens. Instead of which, we didn’t have time to go to the hotel and had to go straight to the game, eventually (having been turned away from four full car parks and leaving the car on the pavement outside one of them) taking our seats ten minutes after kick-off; 9 hours door-to-door – hello, is that Mr Guinness?<br />
<br />
Obviously, I hope no-one was badly injured in the accident that precipitated our misfortune (so far as I can ascertain from the Crewe Chronicle, no-one in any of the seven vehicles was) but, surprise, surprise, an HGV was involved; just do a Google search for accidents on the M6 and see how many HGVs play a part in the frightening statistics. Several incidents during the trips there and back certainly didn’t do anything to dispel the notion that the majority of HGV drivers are no longer the ‘knights of the road’ they once were; blights of the road, more like. If I wasn’t in mixed company, I’d say they were, by and large, the biggest knobheads on the roads today. Anyway, it took us 3½ hours to travel the 20 miles between Junctions 14 and 16 but I would like to take this opportunity to thank the Highways Agency for its helpful messages on the information boards as we approached our doom: “J14 - J16 Long Delays” (when we were stuck in it, I phoned my son and asked him to check the Highways Agency website; he reported that they were warning of a 1½-hour delay – blatant lie – not on my son’s part, naturally, he was brung up proper) “Caution – Spray, Slow Down” (actually it had been quite difficult to see this message because of the spray – when we were travelling fast enough to be affected by it, obviously), and as we progressed (‘progressed’ doesn’t sound quite right, somehow) through the queue: 40 – just their little joke, of course; although I did manage the 4 part once or twice.<br />
<br />
On the day we returned home, we left Oldham at 9.15am and got home at 1.30pm.<br />
<br />
I still hate the M6.<br />
<br />
Hello, is that Cross Country Trains – or Virgin – or National Express - or Flybe?</span></div>NigelHhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18345933070984848820noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9338440.post-77405449039807933692010-11-01T11:45:00.001+00:002010-11-01T11:47:24.335+00:00Marvellous<span style="font-family: arial;">I see the Loan Relationships and Derivative Contracts (Disregard and Bringing into Account of Profits and Losses) (Amendment) Regulations 2009 have been brought in.</span>
<span style="font-family: arial;">Doesn't it give you a nice warm feeling?</span>NigelHhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18345933070984848820noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9338440.post-40076417108830935382010-10-29T14:32:00.003+01:002010-10-29T14:42:01.965+01:00Cars and electrickery<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:trackmoves/> <w:trackformatting/> <w:donotshowrevisions/> <w:donotprintrevisions/> <w:donotshowmarkup/> <w:donotshowcomments/> <w:donotshowinsertionsanddeletions/> <w:donotshowpropertychanges/> <w:punctuationkerning/> <w:validateagainstschemas/> <w:saveifxmlinvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:ignoremixedcontent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:alwaysshowplaceholdertext>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:donotpromoteqf/> <w:lidthemeother>EN-GB</w:LidThemeOther> <w:lidthemeasian>X-NONE</w:LidThemeAsian> <w:lidthemecomplexscript>X-NONE</w:LidThemeComplexScript> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> 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mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-priority:99; mso-style-qformat:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0cm 5.4pt 0cm 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0cm; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:11.0pt; font-family:"Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-ascii-font-family:Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast; mso-hansi-font-family:Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-bidi;} </style> <![endif]--> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;"><span style=";font-size:100%;" >I think there is too much of it in cars these days and our technological expertise seems to be running away from us; the more there is, the more it’s likely something will go wrong. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;"><span style=";font-size:100%;" >So it seemed to be with my 2002 Citroën Xsara Picasso with 52,000 miles on the (electronical) clock – genuine low mileage. I had decided that, because the mobility of my left leg continues to be in a state of flux and, in case it deteriorates to the extent I might find it difficult to operate the clutch pedal, I should look for an automatic. I commenced a trawl of the internet and local advertising media (the latter often containing columns in the classified ads headed “Citreon” and, in one instance “Citron” – just lemon-coloured cars in this one) finally deciding that, being part of a family of Citroën devotees, I quite fancied a C4. I found a couple quite quickly at a main agent nearby and took the Picasso (car, not painting) to let them assess its part‑exchange value and to view the aforementioned C4s. The red one was quickly dismissed (nothing red allowed in our household – surely, you don’t need to ask why) and the Arctic Grey was settled upon, 2007 1.6SX 5-door hatchback model, only one owner and 12,000 miles on the clock (electronical, obviously). The deal was struck and I arranged to collect it the following Friday.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;"><span style=";font-size:100%;" >Anyway, I cleaned the Picasso out on the Monday but, when I went to move it, it wouldn’t start (first time in eight years and it had to be this week). My friendly local mechanic, having decided it looked like an electrical fault, sent an auto‑electrician round (an expert in car electrics, not a robot), who spent some time with his diagnostic box plugged in, concluding that the fault lay with the BSI (something-or-other Systems Interface) unit which was causing the immobiliser to kick in for some reason. At this point, I must come clean and admit that, although I have had the car from new, I never knew that there was an immobiliser lurking within the vehicle’s circuitry; you learn something new every day. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;"><span style=";font-size:100%;" >So, nothing could be done to rectify the problem and, at 7.30 a.m. on the morning following the electrician's visit, I was given a rigid tow to the garage by my life-saving mechanic so they could determine how much they could fleece me to morph the car into something that moved of its own accord. They have concluded that it needs a new fuel pump, cost £316.41, inc. VAT, fitted. So that was how much the part-ex has been reduced (well, they let me off the 41p – decent of them). In view of their ultimate diagnosis, though, I just wish I hadn’t given a chap there my confident summation of the problem that had produced a fault code on the electrician’s diagnostic unit thus making them aware of a potential new problem. See? Electrickery – it trips you up.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;"><span style=";font-size:100%;" >The situation is actually not quite as bad as it sounds – I had previously managed to get the salesman to give me an additional £250 in part-exchange than he offered originally, subject to the road tax remaining (to May 2011) being part of the deal. A nice touch and, in the end, satisfaction all round.
</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;"><span style=";font-size:100%;" >It's a shame that, less than two weeks later, some bastard drove into the back of it while it was parked in a car park in the centre of Malmesbury, Wilts. No note under the wipers, no CCTV, no response to my whingeing letter in the North Wilts Gazette & Herald. £225, thank you very much! There goes my winter fuel allowance - I'll have to wear extra clothes now.
</span></p>NigelHhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18345933070984848820noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9338440.post-35521683508299375792010-08-15T22:11:00.006+01:002010-08-15T22:44:13.000+01:00Growing up<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLsygQQfyCEZCT65LRqEYkTz861mVBi4yHlAQLP6lbdzjT43O1nX0ULZAvke78c2c3SO_Z1_l2bLhtBbZqrlWiyLYPAKyRGvTza_8ioojDcS8XL2ZvJbKL5cEE7rOwK4yTDMuQ/s1600/DSC_0272.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 251px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLsygQQfyCEZCT65LRqEYkTz861mVBi4yHlAQLP6lbdzjT43O1nX0ULZAvke78c2c3SO_Z1_l2bLhtBbZqrlWiyLYPAKyRGvTza_8ioojDcS8XL2ZvJbKL5cEE7rOwK4yTDMuQ/s400/DSC_0272.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5505754190708128706" border="0" /></a>
<div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;">Everyone’s very communicative about their horticultural activities and, determined not to be left out, I thought I’d debrief you all on ours – when I say ours, I really mean Sheila’s, as I am no longer able to take part in anything which departs from an upright or seated position.
</div><span style="font-family: arial;font-family:arial;" >
</span><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;">Take a look at the picture and I’ll guide you as best I can through the elements from left to right in a 360 degree fashion - not bad, these 10 - 22mm wide angle zooms, are they? Mine ruddy well shouldn’t be, it cost me enough; it makes the garden look bigger, though, doesn’t it?
</div><span style="font-family: arial;font-family:arial;" >
</span><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;">Starting from the bed slightly north-east of the black bucket, here there be onions (mostly now harvested), leeks and a few spring onions. To the right the bunches of pink flowers are wild geraniums. Heading vaguely frontwards and inwards, round the outside interspersed with blue ageratum and more geraniums are some kind of salvia – they’re the big red buggers. In pots near the bird bath (which, annoyingly, the dog keeps drinking from, leaving masses of disgusting gob floating in it) are pelargoniums and lilies (dead).
</div><span style="font-family: arial;font-family:arial;" >
</span><div style="text-align: justify; font-family: arial;">Moving round – in the greenhouse are cucumbers, tomatoes and peppers; and heading back towards the louvre door (you haven’t seen that), there is clematis, sweet peas and fuschia, in the trough on the wall are petunias, fuschias and some white flowers which I don’t know the name of. Behind the louvre door is the ubiquitous rhubarb (yum).<span style="font-weight: bold;">
Things to be careful of</span>
</div><span style="font-family: arial;">- The giant triffid in the greenhouse which I am expecting to walk out any day now</span>
<span style="font-family: arial;">- One of those curly hosepipes that helpfully rebounds back to the tap if you don’t keep a firm grip on it, and which gets caught on anything and everything along its length, e.g. pots, bins, buckets etc., usually knocking them over</span><span style="font-family: arial;font-family:arial;" >
</span><span style="font-weight: bold; font-family: arial;font-family:arial;" >
Things not to be noticed</span><span style="font-family: arial;">
- Louvre door (tip bound - not even Freecyclers interested)</span>
<span style="font-family: arial;">- Shelf (same)</span>
<span style="font-family: arial;">- Car dog guard (used at certain times of the day at the back door to stop the dog crapping on the onions)</span>
<span style="font-family: arial;">- Weeds between flags</span>
<span style="font-family: arial;">- Ringwood Brewery parasol (ahem) </span><span style="font-family: arial;font-family:arial;" >
So there you are.</span>
<span style="font-family:arial;"><o:p></o:p></span>NigelHhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18345933070984848820noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9338440.post-92068181624099551132010-08-02T11:30:00.004+01:002012-07-13T11:48:27.914+01:00Lege et lacrima<div align="justify">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Today, I would like to share with you some linguistical research I have been undertaking and talk to you about (and, at several junctures, in) Latin. I hold up my hands and admit that I am not fully responsible for all of the actual translations.<br />
<br />
Some say it’s a dead language, but only its usage is dead and I think it should be revived by dragging it into the 21st Century. It’s all very well for people like René Descartes to come up with stuff like <span style="font-weight: bold;">cogito ergo sum</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">(I think therefore I am)</span> and in probably quite a smug way, as if to say when people looked mystified, <span style="font-weight: bold;">bene, cum Latine nescias, nolo manus meas in te maculare</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">(well, if you don't understand plain Latin, I'm not going to dirty my hands on you)</span>. Or even more ancient bores like Horace: <span style="font-weight: bold;">aequam memento rebus in arduis servare mentem</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">(remember when life's path is steep to keep your mind even)</span>. What we should be doing is looking at ways to modernise Latin which, you have to agree, has a wonderfully profound feel to it no matter what its meaning: <span style="font-weight: bold;">sic transit gloria mundi</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">(so passes the glory of the world)</span> looks and sounds as impressively romantic as <span style="font-weight: bold;">sona si latine loqueris</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">(honk if you speak Latin)</span> or <span style="font-weight: bold;">braccae illae virides cum subucula rosea et tunica caledoniaquam eleganter concinnatur!</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">(those green trousers go really well with that pink shirt and plaid jacket!)</span><br />
<br />
There will inevitably be some drawbacks to achieving the renaissance I am advocating and I think we’ll have to forget some of the jokes that rely on the idiosyncracies of the English language as they simpy don’t translate effectively: for example, <span style="font-weight: bold;">clamo, clamatis, omnes clamamus pro glace lactis</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">(I scream, you scream, we all scream for ice cream)</span> – it’s a great shame! However, this sad state of affairs is rescued to a degree by the nature of some of the more bizarre insults I’ve come across in my research, apparently in common use in the ancient Roman culture: such as <span style="font-weight: bold;">mater tua criceta fuit, et pater tuo redoluit bacarum sambucus</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">(your mother was a hamster and your father smelt of elderberries)</span>; or ripostes to recalcitrant Roman teenagers: <span style="font-weight: bold;">antiquis temporibus, nati tibi similes in rupibus ventosissimis exponebantur ad necem</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">(in the good old days, children like you were left to perish on windswept crags)</span>.<br />
<br />
It would be nice to be able to cover many of life’s modern eventualities with a choice Latin phrase; here is a selection of some common ones: <span style="font-weight: bold;">Balaenae nobis conservandae sunt!</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">(Save the whales!)</span>; <span style="font-weight: bold;">Braccae tuae aperiuntur</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">(Your flies are undone)</span>; <span style="font-weight: bold;">Capillamentum? Haudquaquam conieci esse!</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">(A wig? I never would have guessed!)</span>; <span style="font-weight: bold;">Catapultam habeo. Nisi pecuniam omnem mihi dabis, ad caput tuum saxum immane mittam</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">(I have a catapult. Give me all your money, or I will propel an enormous rock at your head)</span>; <span style="font-weight: bold;">Da mihi sis bubulae frustrum assae, solana tuberosa in modo gallico fricta, ac quassum lactatum coagulatum crassum</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">(Give me a hamburger, french fries, and a thick milk shake)</span>; <span style="font-weight: bold;">Die dulci freure</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">(Have a nice day)</span>; <span style="font-weight: bold;">Ducator meus nihil agit sine lagunculae leynidae accedunt</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">(My calculator does not work without batteries)</span>; <span style="font-weight: bold;">Duco ergo sum</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">(I calculate therefore I am)</span>; <span style="font-weight: bold;">Cogito ergo doleo</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">(I think therefore I am depressed)</span>; <span style="font-weight: bold;">Veni vidi visa</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">(I came, I saw, I shopped)</span>; <span style="font-weight: bold;">Interdum feror cupidine partium magnarum europe vincendarum</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">(Sometimes I get this urge to conquer large parts of Europe)</span>.<br />
<br />
So why not join me in attempting to revive a flagging interest in the language and bring it into everyday conversation? When you need an excuse to leave, say <span style="font-weight: bold;">Cum homine de cane debeo congredi</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">(Excuse me, I've got to see a man about a dog)</span>; after you’ve tried to contact someone unsuccessfully: <span style="font-weight: bold;">Sane ego te vocavi. Forsitan capedictum tuum desit</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">(I did call. Maybe your answering machine is broken)</span>; when you want to make a wise pronouncement at a summer barbecue party with friends: <span style="font-weight: bold;">Animadvertistine, ubicumque stes, fumum recta in faciem ferri?</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">(Have you ever noticed how, wherever you stand, the smoke goes right into your face?)</span>; or just an introductory platitude (definitely not a chat-up line, though) <span style="font-weight: bold;">Vidistine nuper imagines moventes bonas?</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">(Seen any good movies lately?)</span>. On the subject of movies, wouldn’t it be much better if the dialogue was in Latin? <span style="font-weight: bold;">"Certe, toto, sentio nos in kansate non iam adesse"</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">("You know, Toto, I have a feeling we're not in Kansas anymore")</span>; <span style="font-weight: bold;">Credidi me felem vidisse!</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">(I tought I taw a puddy tat!)</span>; <span style="font-weight: bold;">Me transmitte sursum, caledoni</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">(Beam me up, Scotty)</span>.<br />
<br />
By the way, the heading means “read it and weep” - possibly a warning too late! </span></div>NigelHhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18345933070984848820noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9338440.post-79013798257202201342010-05-09T08:26:00.004+01:002011-05-30T00:25:48.201+01:00Back in the forest<span style="font-family: arial;">Hello, everyone, I’m home! A few more entries from the diary of medical history to sum up where we are. All did not go as smoothly as one might have hoped! <br />
<br />
Monday April 26th – had anterior resection and temporary ileostomy (apparently). Surgeons say the operation was very successful; spend the next few days recovering and trying to count the number of holes that have been made in my skin. <br />
<br />
Friday April 30th – I get the word I am to be allowed home today and, having phoned Sheila to tell her, I walk to the ward window to admire the view of the Wiltshire hills in the distance, which is a bit difficult as this is obscured by three massive air ducts and the hospital laundry. Experience a severe posterior epistaxis – sounds better than a “bad nosebleed” doesn’t it? Following a traumatic visit to ENT, I am told I have to stay in. Epistaxis occurs on two further occasions, the second resulting in the on call Registrar having to drive from Southampton to take charge, and a tranfusion of two units of blood. <br />
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Saturday May 1st – Am taken by ambulance to Southampton Hospital (“blue-lighted”, I understand! Exciting, eh? Not.) Spend a total of four days (and as many sleepless nights) in Ward F5, not being allowed to eat or drink anything hot because of the epistaxis thing, and not being allowed out of bed. <br />
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Wednesday May 5th – I can go!! They tell me at 1.30pm and I ring Sheila with the good news. She arrives at 3.25pm, having queued for 40 minutes to get into the car park, I get dressed, and all we have to do is wait for my sack of medication to come up from Pharmacy. We manage to get away at 6.05pm. No, don’t say it, I already have. <br />
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Friday May 7th – Post-op clinic appointment with consultant who confirms that the tumour was self-contained and had not spread to the lymph nodes. The pathologist, however, spotted some minor microscopic vascular invasion which may or may not require chemo. This is up to the oncologist, who I’m seeing next week. So there it is. For the record, and for about two weeks following discharge, I have to: <br />
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(1) Avoid blowing my nose <br />
(2)</span><span style="font-family: arial;"> Avoid picking my nose (as if I would)</span><span style="font-family: arial;"> <br />
(3) </span><span style="font-family: arial;">Avoid strenuous exercise (damn!)</span> <br />
(4) <span style="font-family: arial;">Avoid lifting heavy weights, such as a full kettle (it says that – honest!)</span> (5) <span style="font-family: arial;">Keep baths/showers cool (sod off!) <br />
(6) </span><span style="font-family: arial;">Avoid bending over (wilco) <br />
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<span style="font-family: arial;">See you soon! </span>NigelHhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18345933070984848820noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9338440.post-90578000888742369932010-04-22T10:17:00.003+01:002011-05-29T17:04:13.847+01:00Don't say the C word<div style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: small;">I've thought long and hard about this, but have decided to share some recent diary entries with you.</span></div><div style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: small;">12th March, 10.30 - Go to medical centre and have routine blood test for diabetic check; nurse spots the angry red itchy rash at the bottom of my right arm and makes an appointment with the doc at 5pm the same day.</span></div><div style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: small;">12th March, 17.00 - See doc, who prescribes penicillin, special soap, skin cream and strong steroid ointment. He asks if I have any other problems and I mention one or two toiletry issues. Before I realise what's happening, he dons plastic gloves, pokes his fingers up my backside and refers me to the bum department at Salisbury Horsepiddle.</span></div><div style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: small;">22nd March, 11.00 - Have barium enema (*knock knock* - is that a friend or an enema? The old ones are the best) which, if you weren't aware, is quite horrible.</span></div><div style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: small;">22nd March, 15.00 - Hospital rings to say I have to go back and see the consultant surgeon - "there's a problem".</span></div><div style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: small;">26th March, 10.30 - See consultant (she is a very lovely person, by the way) who says there is a tumour lurking in the lower bowel and it is cancerous (how did I know she was going to tell me that?). Best case scenario - we cut the little bastard out and rejoin the bowel, but first I must have scans to find out if it has spread to other organs.</span></div><div style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: small;">1st April, 11.00 - Have MRI and CT scans and spend the days following in a hell in which I am convinced that every spot, mole, ache and pain is raging cancer.</span></div><div style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: small;">8th April, 12.30 - Consultant tells me it hasn't spread. Am a bit relieved. I then have an examination and biopsies under anaesthetic to determine whether or not the best case scenario mentioned earlier can happen. The consultant comes to the recovery ward to tell me that it can. I kiss her - I did ask permission first.</span></div><div style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: small;">15th April, 12.00 - I now have a date for the operation - 26th April - and, today, the consultant fills me in on what will happen. I will have to have one of them bags (*groan*) but only for a temporary period and, possibly chemotherapy afterwards. I then go to see one of the stoma care nurses (the consultant calls them bag ladies) with whom I spend a happy hour going over some practicalities. She was very forthright and words like 'wee' and 'poo' slip glibly off her tongue.</span></div><div style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: small;">25th April, 15.00 - I go to the horsepiddle, have a blood-thinning injection, go home and return on the morrow for the surgery, following which I'll be in for four or five days, then signed off for two weeks. Good job my employer now has a sick pay scheme!</span></div><div style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: small;">I feel like I've been in a whirlwind; still, given the alternative, I should think myself lucky. See you again soon.</span></div>NigelHhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18345933070984848820noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9338440.post-17977061503054490832010-04-20T15:06:00.003+01:002011-05-29T17:05:26.895+01:00Spring Has Sprung<img src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4009/4535114447_38df27330a.jpg" /><br />
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<img src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4030/4535113231_ddc4f7d382.jpg" /><br />
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<div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">You'll all know that Stu had to stop running the Tuesday Challenge for work-related reasons. Well, Jonathan Gazeley, a regular contributor, kindly offered to step into the breech to host a new weekly challenge and jolly good it is, too! It's now up to #20, this week's subject being "Spring Has Sprung". So, armed with an idea (and a new digital SLR), I went out yesterday to search for Spring foals in the New Forest. I only saw one and it was lovely; however, there was nowhere to stop the car and, by the time there was room, it was too far away for my poor old leg to cope! Anyway, I took some more piccies and, after much umming and aahing, eventually narrowed it down to one from the three up there ^^. I chose the top one, hoping that lazing around in the late April sunshine was normal Spring behaviour for deer in the New Forest. Please tell me I was right!</span></div>NigelHhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18345933070984848820noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9338440.post-52783589422034650292010-02-14T15:27:00.002+00:002010-02-14T15:34:02.810+00:00I'm addicted......to <a href="http://www.sporcle.com/">this</a>. Don't blame me!NigelHhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18345933070984848820noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9338440.post-75218670703750609112010-02-07T12:26:00.010+00:002011-05-30T22:23:59.076+01:00Panic on the second floor<span style="font-family: arial;">I know a lot of you are pretty familiar with some quite intimate details about me - OCD sock-folding and the like - and I hesitate to provide a further insight into the murky depths of my life, not to mention further ammunition for certain people to extract the *ahem* compost accelerator. Oh well, whatever.</span> <br />
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<span style="font-family: arial;">Those of you who were at the Annual Dinner of the association that employs me will have seen – and no doubt admired from a distance (that location seemingly being preferable to some philistines) – the new snazzy waistcoat. I confess I like snazzy waistcoats, but there was a special reason for its last minute purchase the day before I travelled to Blackpool.</span> <span style="font-family: arial;"><br />
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It’s my practice to try on the suit (yes, </span><span style="font-family: arial; font-weight: bold;">the</span><span style="font-family: arial;"> suit, weddings, funerals, Annual Dinner) well before the trip, but I let things slip a bit – including a chunk of midriff as it turned out – and I hurriedly acquired some trouser waist extenders. I tried one on and soon realised that, even with a belt to cover up the buttonhole flap (aptly named as, unfettered, that’s what it did), the whole mechanism was untidy at best and unruly at worst, not to mention the zip problem. What? No, I said not to mention it. So, I had the brainwave of the snazzy waistcoat to cover the whole sorry mess up. I think I might have got away with it – until now, of course. <br />
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Anyway, to those few who were rather rude about it (“does your Mum know you nicked one of her tablecloths?”, “has someone been sick down your shirt?”, “why are you wearing a deck-chair?”) I would say that, sadly, style is obviously a concept entirely unfamiliar to you. </span> <span style="font-family: arial;">Oh yes, the panic. After stepping out of the shower about three quarters of an hour before going down to the wine reception, I realised I couldn’t find the very useful padded hinged box that I had brought as a convenient receptacle for a few small items. It took me thirty of those precious minutes to find it in the very safe place I had hidden it by which time I was very hot and bothered and my three-quarters-packed suitcase (forward planning - leaving the next morning) had reverted back to its empty state. <br />
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At first I thought the box had been stolen and I have to admit my fear was not for the loss of the solid gold matching cufflink and tie-clip set my Nan had given me for my 21st birthday, or the expensive gold neck chain Sheila had bought me for Christmas, but the trouser waist extender!</span> <span style="font-family: arial;">Here's a little tip: if you’ve got a memo facility on your phone, add things to it like seekrit hiding places, Chinese takeaway order numbers (don’t ask), PINs (disguised and hidden inside other characters), and items of shopping your wife asks you to get in Sainsbo’s while you’re in town.</span> <span style="font-family: arial;">I know I can rely on you to keep these revelations to yourselves!</span>NigelHhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18345933070984848820noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9338440.post-74735883478152262372010-01-12T18:03:00.004+00:002011-05-30T22:27:15.154+01:00Extended training session<div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">We had tickets for the first leg of the Carling Cup semi-final for last Wednesday evening at the City of Manchester Stadium but, of course, it was postponed because of some weather or something (tickets still valid for the rescheduled game on Tuesday 19th - more travelling). <br />
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This did not prevent me braving the elements on Wednesday morning (actually, at that time, there weren’t any elements) as Sheila was already at her mother’s in Manchester and I was packed and ready to go. Chaos reigned at Bournemouth railway station: trains between Bournemouth and Waterloo (both ways) were being delayed up to 1 hour 12 minutes – somewhat daunting when you consider the total journey time averages only about 1¾ hours - and platform changes abounded, including for my train which involved the rather comical spectacle of me trying to run through the subway to Platform 3 with 4 minutes to spare! When I arrived, the departure board had indicated that the 09:45 to Manchester Piccadilly was ON TIME but every announcement on the PA system seemed to be prefaced by the words: “We are very sorry to inform passengers for the....” and the nearer it got to 09:45, the more apprehensive I became. In the event, we were only 15 minutes late setting off and, despite the increasing arctic conditions the further northish we progressed (and this was between Bournemouth and Southampton, not the real north!), the adverse weather didn’t seem to hinder the train’s speed that much and we made good headway. Until Wolverhampton, that is, when the train manager (guard, in my day) announced: “I’m sorry to report <i>[here we go again]</i> that we will be delayed here indefinitely due to a suspected suicide on the track between here and Stafford, in the Penkridge area...” It could only happen to me! Anyway, as it was the first time I had been able to get a signal on my broadband dongle, I did over an hour’s work while we were stationary - see what I did there? <br />
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I arrived at Piccadilly a couple of hours late in the end, but in one piece, well, ¾ of a piece – don’t forget the dodgy leg – and a very nice (brave) taxi driver conveyed me to my mother-in-law’s in Middleton (Rochdale) along snow-covered roads. And my dongle carried on working! Ironically, the journey back home last Sunday took less time than it usually does - just 4 hours!</span></div>NigelHhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18345933070984848820noreply@blogger.com2