Monday, 9 April 2018

My  blog viewing figures for last week whilst down in  total are more disappointing in that the Russians have plummeted from 3rd place to 6th and more inexplicably the Germans have come in first! Ahead of the UK.
United Kingdom
United States
New Zealand

Is this the Salisbury factor or because I haven't discussed Mr Putin (or his father Ras) for some time?
I'm inclined to  wobble a little on the Russian side especially if it's a matter of which  to believe-Boris or Vladimir.
Now I'm not silly enough to believe that anyone who made a career out of the KGB and then became President of Russia isn't going to be able to bend the facts somewhat but given that Boris has never managed to tell the truth-remember the bus- why should I start believing him now.

What happened in Salisbury becomes even more terrifying if it wasn't sanctioned by the Russian Government because it means some other fruitcake is out there with access to some nasty stuff. The Russian Ambassador who obviously denied it was them wot dunnit did, I think, raise a couple of points worthy of reflection. One was how did our medical men know how to treat the victims if nobody apparently knew what the toxin was and and it can't be denied that Porton Down aint that far away. Silly I know but remember this is the country where a man could sit on the end of the Queen's bed and smoke a cigarette so I'm never over-impressed when told of the existence of impermeable security.
If it was the Russians then it's probably a cynical attempt to dissuade us from attending the World Cup but as Iceland are going as well the Russians have nothing to fear anyway. And if it wasn't the Russians we'll never know who it was because we've shut off that line of enquiry for fear of being guilty of jumping to the wrong conclusion. I won't side with Corbyn cos he will adopt a position opposed to the Government no matter what but I do think a little reflection on the facts would not go amiss and the vilification JC had from the right wing press was beyond rational thought.
Remember that's what we didn't do when we went into Iraq and that was a total success(pit) wasn't it?

Enuff doom and gloom!

To Kent for the week before Easter where we'd rented a cottage behind a hotel on the outskirts of Faversham, ideal for visiting Caz, Philip and the girls. Lovely gardens and grounds with a play area clearly signposted as for over 14s so off went Pam to play on the slide wire and the swings.

A responsible adult
It's Monday and I am allocated responsibility  of collecting Mathilda from Caz's office  and wheeling her round Faversham for an hour.  Such responsibility wears heavy on a 71 year old childless male untutored in the behaviour of prambound infants whose cries  allegedly often mean nothing but might, just might, indicate unhappiness, unnappyness, some illness identifiable only by nannies and grannies. All designed to turn a stroll round a Kentish town into a nightmare both for the pramee and the pramperer neither of whom have much experience in dealing with such matters.  The requirement to try and look like you know what you're doing on such occasions requires a level of self-confidence which this sorry soul lost years back-I did my best but I could sense the anxiety in the mother's eyes as she handed the charge, still awake, over to me.
The "still awake" is important in that Cow Roast's answer to Mary Poppins had hoped Mathilda would be fast akip throughout proceedings and our stroll would be serene and polished drawing admiring glances from the various nosey old bags who like to peer into a pram asking stupid questions like "and what's your name?" as though addressing the pub parrot but with less likelihood of a helpful response.
Mathilda has for the while not responded positively to being taken from her mother and handed over to Hairy Poppins especially if she is then wheeled away from the anxious parent and main provider of nutrition in a pram pushed by an obvious incompetent whose brain is full of useless thoughts as :-
What if I need a loo? An increasing requirement as the bladder ages at the same rate as the aforesaid brain and gets as full of useless matter
 Even worse-What if she needs a loo?
Does she like whistling or is that totally alien to her. As her sobbing increases I purse out the first few bars of "Silent Night"; the nearest I can come to a lullaby or soothing Negro Spiritual.
The result is a change from the sobbing (which was breaking my heart and drawing the attention of passing Faverham matriarchs) to a more red faced, full volley choking and wailing noise that I was sure would soon mean the arrival of Faversham's Finest, blue lights aflashing and questioning deep into the night as to which Pound Shop or Wetherspoons had I snatched the child from. By now my brain was dealing with that question and the shame prison would bring on my family when suddenly Mathilda's hat fell over her eyes. I reached to lift it and realised that the sobbing was abating as sleep became another option. The two options worked against one another for the next ten minutes as we negotiated our way towards the Faversham Market square trying to avoid kerbs and cobbles which might remove the sleep option.
By the time I reached the entrance to the square she was away with the fairies. This is easy I thought drawing myself up to look like a man who knew what he was doing.
Then the cretinous halfwit with the bagpipes began. I don't like the bagpipes. I would ban them from anywhere south of Berwick. But this was south of Canterbury for God's sake. No delicate Kentish baby cradled in the bosom of her loving family would have ever been exposed to such a tinnitus -inducing caterwauling, doubly alarming if on being so rudely awoken you find yourself back in your worst nightmare where your buggy, fixings shook loose by Faversham cobbles, is in the hands of the bearded, whistling eejit who'd pulled your hat over your eyes and shunted off into the pedestrianised, bagpiped area to avoid the  passing police cars.

The Gods were with me so fear not. I turned myself, buggy and Mathilda on a sixpence and headed for the Post Office and away from Hamish MacNoisyScreech. A welcome bench, a few approving nods from the great and good and sadly my hour was done. I pushed my still sleeping charge back to where Caz was waiting. She had been joined by Philip and I couldn't help but think-and the relief in his expression confirmed it-that he had probably been concerned that his wife had been so irresponsible. But then he didn't know how close we had come to kilted disaster and probably hasn't learnt yet that looking after kids is easy. You just pull the wool over their eyes.  Goodnight Mathilda.

Wednesday morning and off to church.
Well, that was the plan-an Easter Service cum play enacted by the children from Florence's Primary school to which Caz, Mathilda and I were going. The weather, of course was appalling continuing to chuck it down as it did most of the week. Caz rang to say the whole thing had been transferred to the school so off I went. Again the challenge of a wet, bearded 71 year old entering a Primary School where he'd never been before whilst trying not to look like a photofit picture. The  whole thing was beautiful and the different classes managed to convey the true meaning of the Passion of Christ's Crucifixion and the Resurrection much better than I'd heard for a long while. 
 I suspect much better than the kids at my primary school ever managed. May I indulge myself and quote a passage from my magnum opus  currently only half finished which demonstrates our thespian qualities.

My Primary School class was to have its annual visit from the Parish Priest. My form teacher was an elderly-or so she seemed to me - nun from the nearby convent whose occupants were all teachers at either my Primary School or the adjacent Girls’ Grammar School.  We had been on red alert for weeks before the visit with cramming sessions on the Catechism, Prayers we were meant to know by heart and how to behave when “Father” was in the classroom. It was also usual to enact a scene from the New Testament and for some reason I can’t imagine I was selected to play the lead ,The Man Himself. The Messiah. I could understand it now but I didn’t have a beard then.
The chosen passage was where the disciples are fishing in the Sea of Galilee when a terrific storm blows up and and they all get in a panic. In order to give the impression of a storm those kids who had not been given starring roles formed the shape of a boat and they and the occupants all swayed about enthusiastically going “whooooa” to imitate the swell of the sea and the ferocity of  the wind. Except for one. I, for some reason best known by St Matthew, start the scene asleep in the back of the boat and had to be woken by the alarmed crew.
After criticising them for their lack of faith ( a tad harsh in my opinion but then nobody is at their best when woken suddenly) Christ commands the sea to calm down a bit, which of course it does and the crew are mightily impressed.
As I did my sea-calming  they ceased swaying and whooooaing and regained their equilibrium
It was all going so well up to that point.
St Peter, played by a ginger haired Irish kid with a Cork accent intoned “What manner of man is this that the wind and the sea obey him?” By this time I was walking backwards, arms raised, to the stern of the boat presumably to continue my nap. I had not noticed that St Peter had left his leg stickinout and arse over tit I went falling out of the boat and landing at the feet of the Parish priest who was watching the whole pantomime with a bemused expression.
Even then my acting career might not have been summarily  terminated if, (in a failed attempt to introduce a little humour into this Biblical nightmare), on hitting the classroom floor, I hadn’t shouted “SPLASH!”
Whilst in no way helping Sister Concertina or whatever her name was to find anything funny in the scene the rest of the crew lost it completely and the boat fell apart to the sound of childish giggling as they swam enthusiastically round the classroom, the non-swimmers grasping hold of the nearest radiator and screeching for help.
The wrath of that nun, once “Father” had left -trying to look annoyed but I suspect wetting himself,- soon convinced myself, Ginger from Cork, half a dozen disciples and the crew of the “Galilee Lass”  that our now non existent acting careers were of little concern compared to the fact that our miserable Souls were stained for Eternity, we would all roast in Hell and the only comfort was that Hell would be marginally more enjoyable than the rest of that term under her vengeful steward(ess)ship. I know she was right and at the time of writing I haven’t even experienced hell- yet!

Maybe there's an egg under this baby????

Back to Faversham in the present day and my next responsibility was an Easter Egg Hunt which went rather well despite the fact that I had planned for eggs to be hidden throughout the garden at our cottage but as it was a Bank Holiday weekend we had to do it indoors. Yep. Still raining.When I say we it was really Florence who seemed to have an uncanny knack of finding eggs no matter how clever I'd been. Great fun and all the girls got eggs....and Philip though he probably never found out.
Good egg

I'm not going round Faversham with that bloke again

I'll stay here and help Grandma crochet
 Saturday and France beckons, crossing by ferry to Calais and driving down to Boulogne sur Mer for an excellent fruit de mer lunch which Pam attempted as well though there was a lot of it; all accompanied by a Muscadet which I only assisted in demolishing in small part as the wheels awaited. There's a lot going on in Boulogne with much redevelopment though the nature of the fishing harbour remains with every boat smelling of something I'd just eaten. Divine. Back for the evening ferry calling in at Calais wines for Grandma's tonic and home to Judd's Folly hotel in Faversham where the third wedding of the Easter weekend was underway. A few quiet drinks away from the melee and an earlyish night.


Back to Berko and lots to do. The two main items on my agenda are the forthcoming Safety Certificate inspection on the boat due next week requiring work to be done and asap. Plus St George's looms on 21st (the party that is- Feast is 23rd) I'm hobbling on a duff leg and it won't stop pissing down but no excuses.
I'd love to take time to tell you about two small victories;-one over a car park company and one over a mobile phone scam but they will keep for next time so forgive me if I write no more-tempus fugit. 

Sunday, 11 March 2018

Bloody Hell! That was cold. I'm not the man I used to be and probably never was but I've felt the icy blast more this time than ever before. The snow wasn't too bad-arrived, made a nuisance for a couple of days and shoved off. Perfect. I know it was/is worse elsewhere but round here "The Beast from the East" was pumped up by the Meejah to become the "Hysteria from Siberia". Schools and shops closed, the shelves were cleared of bread, Waitrose saw a return of the 2015 Avocado Wars and FaceBook was full of people wanting to know what the roads were like the other side of the hedge.
It was cold though-seriously cold - a wind that cut between your vest and pants and froze appendages, appendixes -sorry-appendices and apertures especially on the 5 minutes it takes to walk along the path from boat to gate or vice versa. The problem with being on the boat in this weather isn't on board. Once you've got your arse in gear, coal and logs organised, full water tank, an empty thunderbox, plenty of grub, a smattering of alcohol you are fine inside the old girl. Every now and then you have to venture out to empty the ash bucket or get some more logs or coal from the store but generally it's fine.
An Ice-breaker...may I introduce you?.......
Fully stocked
It's outside elements that bugger things up. The canal froze this last week and that meant no coal boat but that wasn't a problem-but it could have been. If the canal was frozen then so was the Sanitary Station and the Water Point. The delight to be experienced when one lugs a full loo bucket along a swampy path with the aforementioned wind blasting the aforementioned bits and pieces only to discover the facility is non-functioning is immeasurable. Fortunately I was able to work round the problem but I did advise CRT to get the  station locked before anyone dumped any more.

{some of us are like wheelbarrows-only useful when pushed and very easily upset-Jack Herbert}

Some places had two feet of snow

As I say it's thawed now and life can return to normal or an approximation thereof.

Increasingly mild is the forecast which is excellent. My failing health permitting I intend to powerwash the boat this coming week and start preparing for my Safety Examination, all that squeezed between two funerals (Mario O'Neil and Dave Harvey's Mum, Dot) and an appointment with the nurse (Could be another 4Ws and an F)
Went to the excellent Odyssey Cinema in St Albans to see the Darkest Hour which was very good except it left me doing Churchill impressions for the next few days. Mmmmmmwah Keep buggerin on -mwwwha. The film did well at the awards ceremonies as did Dunkirk. Looking back we seem to cope better with being attacked by the bloomin Germans than we do with 4 inches of snow.
I've got four books on the go which is silly. I struggle to commit to reading these days which is both bothersome and disappointing so if I'm tackling four I achieve even less. Two of the books are mainly set in Rome-one on Cicero, one on the Popes, both a good read. The third is on trees and deserving of full attention and the fourth was given to me for my birthday by friends Lynn and Trevor. It is a book of Great British Wit and normally one just dips in and out of such a book but it is so good for lifting the spirits-though obviously not as good as actually lifting the spirit-cheers- and has quite a few gems some of which a are peppered throughout this blog.

I particularly enjoyed and laughed out loud at the following wonderful lines from "Are You Being Served"

{on the phone....

"Hello is that Mr Akbar? Mrs  Slocombe here, your next door neighbour. I wonder could you do me a little favour?
Would you go to my front door, bend down, look through the letterbox...and if you can see my pussy, would you drop a sardine on the mat?"}

Classic-I'd love to buy a pint for whoever wrote that.


Spring is Coming!

Louise Yeoman (nb Dreckley) on our moorings here at sunny Cow Roast is helping to organise a Spring Ceilidh/ Barn Dance with New Moon Morris, a band of boaters, dancers and musicians to be held at the Nora Grace Hall in Tring at 8 pm on 28th April 2018. All profits to Rennie Grove Hospice Care 

There is a FaceBook event link below but most of you will want to go straight to where you can buy tickets. 
Bring your own alcohol and hot drinks and snacks will be provided by the Little Red coffee van, which is run by no other than our favourite marine engineer, Ed Boden’s wife, Sarah. Tickets are £8.50 for adults, £5.50 under 15’s and under 5’s free. Tickets are also available  from the Beechwood Cafe, Frogmore Street in Tring.

The Ceilidh (pronounced 'kaylee') will feature the excellent band 'Pickled Tink' and will be from 8:00 to 11:00 pm.
New Moon Morris will perform in the interval.
Nora Grace Hall is in Faversham Close
Parking nearby in Church Yard car park with access from Frogmore Street.

Before that we have our St George's Party on Sat 21st April of which more anonny hey nonny no....... and before that we're off to Kent to spend time near Philip, Caz, Florence and Mathilda plus squeeze in a day trip to France primarily for lunch but probably pick up some diet Lilt while we're there. A Fruits de Mer perhaps but who knows.
"France is the largest country in Europe, a great boon for drunks, who need room to fall"-Alan Coren


Last  Tuesday we had a power cut. They've been digging up the road outside the Cow Roast Inn and pop! Off we went-Only for an hour but it was while I was listening to the Mighty Fulham beating Sheffield Utd 3-0.  A most unwelcome interruption!

On the bright side they might be doing something to the electricity supply to the pub so where there's life etc.
One of my favourite pieces of work is Jeffery Bernard is Unwell by Keith Waterhouse. I saw Peter O'Toole perform it on stage years ago. Wonderful. I have a VHS recording of O'Toole's performance but my tv doesn't play VHS. I have a dvd player so thought I might get the play in that format. Cheapest so far? £35!!! so while I'm pondering whether to spend that much I thought I'd dig out my dvd player which I did. But could I find the lead? No. So before I lash out a small fortune on the dvd I have to consider whether I want to buy another dvd player but in the meantime I came across the following cartoon which pleased me greatly.

as did this....
The England Squad kit for World Cup. Russia, 2018

Mother's Day and I sit finishing this blog. Pam is in Kent, en famille, and I have the day clear for good works. Well it was clear but amazingly for me these days I didn't wake till 10.45 so that's half the morning gone and no good works performed. Funnily enough I woke to a text from a friend asking "Are you going to wake?_ I was perplexed in that how did they know I'd overslept and then the fog cleared. THey were inquiring about tomorrow's funeral-silly me.
No reason to oversleep. We had a quiet night with dinner at Gatsby's followed by "The Post" at The Rex; an excellent film with Hanks and Streep on great form. It's a period of history I recall well, not just because the Vietnam War formed a backdrop to my youthful political thinking but also because I was studying Social and Political theory at the time and a lot of alleged heroes of the age turned out to be major liars in major matters. Nixon. of course, was a given. He exercised an amazing arrogance in both his dealings with the Press generally and, of course, his certainty that he could hang onto power despite Watergate. Such brass-neckedness outdoes even the current incumbent but wait and watch.
I looked in my book for a suitable phrase to close this bit on and found three I like.

Alexei Sayle
Americans have different ways of saying things. They say "elevator" we say "lift"...they say  "President", we  say "stupid, psychopathic git"

Douglas Adams
"Anyone who is capable of getting themselves made President should on no account be allowed to do the job".

and finally yet still relevantly the wonderful Charles Dickens

"I believe that the heaviest blow ever dealt at liberty's head will be dealt by the United States in the ultimate failure of its example to the earth"

I think it's now a little unfair to blame the whole United States (other than that they elected Trump) and our example when we were in our pomp was not always driven by the need for liberty.

Enough of my rubbish-Enjoy what looks like the start of Spring, stay away from Salisbury and remember......................

"Ooooooooohhh There's Only One F in Fulham etc.

Monday, 19 February 2018

I've got a new friend. Lucky eh?
Well, not exactly. We haven't actually met, let alone been introduced but we are becoming more and more interlinked each day; our lives running along side by side joined by a thread of deepening awareness.
It (for I know not what sex "it" is and God knows there's enough to choose from these days) lives in my car and has done so apparently for over a week. Hard to tell when it arrived but I first thought "Hello, I've got a visitor" when I found a loaf of granary bread had been tampered with. The type of bread is unimportant other than to indicate I had opted for the healthy option but the tamperer had only had a nibble, not voracious, but noticeable and certainly enough to render the healthy option unappetising to the tamperee.
"Bastard" I thought. Then it had a go at my cough sweets in the glove compartment but obviously couldn't get the wrapper off. A few chewed pieces of newspaper indicated something verminous. I cleared the car but found nothing. I handed  the car over to the Polish Handwashki at Cow Roast for a full valet (15 quid- excellent value) who cleaned and Polish-ed her till she gleamed. I drove away confident that matey was now half way to Tring, propelled there, I hoped,  on the end of a Polish power washer's jet.

The discovery of my atlas in a state of distress (eaten the whole of Wales and the bit about road signs) meant my confidence was ill founded. The bastard was still about. So being of a kindly nature I set a humane trap (which surely means they are to catch humans!?) I baited it with a little chocolate cookie biscuit....correction-three biscuits have now been devoured but the trap is empty. Bastard.
So what have we learnt. Our new friend has a cough, an interest in Wales, a liking for chocolate cookies and can't read. How do I know it can't read?
We've upgraded the weaponry to poison the sod. Whatever it is. Well whatever it is it can't read. Or rather if it can read it can't comprehend that this stuff according to the packet is irresistible to little furry bastards. It has resisted it for two nights and got stuck into shredding a towel (Egyptian-Dunelm)!
Some of this might strike you as an over reaction-live and let live etc but those of you that know me-or rather the inside of my car- will know that my lifestyle is such that approximately a third of my possessions travel with me; sometimes on their way to the launderette or Council tip but more often because there is no room for them elsewhere. Add to this the fact that at this time of ball-breaking coldness the car makes an excellent additional fridge. Until visitors arrive that is.
So I've removed everything from the car so there is only the irresistible poison left. My fear was that it would take a fancy to the wiring instead which I know with my experience of glis glis is catastrophic. 

 Well, nothing's been nibbled, disturbed, chewed, confettied for a week. .........
looking cool in a hat from France courtesy of Auntie Natalie

In the interim a trip to collect Caz and Mathilda.
They  came to stay with Pam for half term and it  was lovely to see them.
All babies are great and I'm a big soft sod but Mathilda is gorgeous; absolutely gorgeous.

======================================== Somehow I've got involved in my local Patient Participation Group and have been drafting a newsletter to be sent to patients. I thought I'd include a few of cartoons which I  now share with you.


Ever now and then the sun appears and brightens our lives and encourages us to look forward to the Spring. Not soon enough as far as I'm concerned. Just filled up with diesel (which runs my central heating) from the wonderful Juels' fuels. £132! Since 8th January! 31 days! £4.26 a day! Actually that's not too bad and that I hope is the coldest month dealt with. Mind you there's also coal and logs for the real fire, say, 40 quid a month. No wonder I want the Spring to arrive. As does I am sure the little beauty to the right who just perched on my ropes for at least two minutes hunched against the biting wind blowing up from wildest Berkhamsted. I was so excited to snap him, to see him in fact. Such a treat.
One of the places a chap should be able to retreat to on a cold evening is his local but as the whole world knows the Cow Roast Inn is shut, its future uncertain but the view hereabouts is it's closed for good. For some strange reason a giant skip arrived for a couple of days suggesting some action but nobody saw anything happen and it disappeared again.

And now Lent approaches. As an O level Catholic I struggle with Lent, or rather the giving stuff up bit. I have proved conclusively over the last 71 years that I have sod all will power, never ever able to maintain those Lenten resolutions.
The whole world knows I must lose some weight but do I seize the opportunity of 40 days without beer or bread? Nah. Well maybe at first but then the negotiations start-maybe I could have a beer.....or two....on just a Friday and perhaps just wine with meals.....and bang crash wallop nothings changed and Lent is over and so is my weight.
It's Shrove Tuesday so decision time. Tomorrow is the kick off. What to do....I'd better not announce my intentions publicly for fear that the odd (very) friend that reads this crap might spot me skulking, cream horn in hand, and denounce me. Come on now Michael it's only 40 days-you must be able to give up something fattening  for just 40 days...but what?
It's absolutely peeing down as I write. It's enough to drive a man to drink.

This was meant to be a photo of the MSWIB in the snowdrops
 but the MSWIB obviously decided otherwise
Pam and I went to Stowe last weekend and very pleasant too except I kept running out of puff which comes back to my weight I suppose. I even used the little bus that's meant to be for the wrinklies and I don't like that. I seem to recover very quickly which suggests it's all in the mind so looks like I'm fat and barmy.....but then you all knew that.
 The MSWIB? I hear you ask. Well some passing toff said to me something like "Your wife is the most stylish woman in Buckinghamshire" which was nice...except the "wife" bit; the MSWIB wasn't too impressed with that.

Some more pictures.


To end on' a couple of RIPs.
Friend and publican Mario O'Neill died last week aged 64 I think. Mario and I first met years ago when he temporarily managed the Cow Roast Inn during one of its many hiatus periods. We got on well and kept in touch thereafter until eventually he took the tenancy of the Rose and Crown (now closed) which was a few doors from Pam and therefor very handy. For some reason lost in the passing of time but probably to do with the fact we were both taught by priests he would usually greet me with "Good Evening your Reverence" to which I would respond "and to you your Grace"
Ever happy with a wind up when a customer asked Mario (in my absence)why he addressed me thus he kindly explained that I was a defrocked priest and then to make sure half the pub ignored me added "but he's a tax inspector now"
A few days later I was waiting for a train at Berko and saw one of the R and C customers just along the platform-I knew he was a builder so probably not a big fan of HMRC but when I waved at him in cheery acknowledgement he blanked me. When the train arrived I saw him climb aboard but as I took my seat I saw through the window he had got off again. Methinks he had a lot of unpaid tax. Mario and I enjoyed that story often. 
RIP Your Grace.

I didn't really know Malcolm Snow other than the odd exchange of a good evening in The Lamb. With no disrespect intended I mention him for another reason. A couple of years ago in the lead up to Christmas-let's call it Advent-the Lions had organised their traditional Santa on a sleigh touring the streets of Berko and generally raising an air of jollity. Unfortunately on this occasion the snow and ice had visited early and the sleigh lost its grip on the hill leading to the High Street and Santa and parcels and elves had careered across
the road T -boning a parked car....owned by Malcolm Snow.
Whilst having sympathy for all concerned I would have loved to have been in the Insurer's Office the following day to hear that Santa had crashed his sleigh into a Mr Snow. You couldn't make it up.
Back to Mooring matters and thought is being given to the St George's annual party and in particular whether to have an auction. It does take a long while and if it's chilly, which it usually is then it's a bit tough on guests having to put up with the hawking of a fair amount of junk whilst hypothermia sets in. Some say it raises money so what the hell. I'm ambivalent.

I do feel it's got a bit tired and a rest might be a good idea. A suggestion is that if anyone has anything actually of value they price it and leave it on a table inviting offers. After that it's up to them whether they pocket the proceeds minus 10% for charity or make the whole thing a donation.
A topic for discussion for the next month.
Before I publish I'm just going to check the car once more when Ady and I go for a pre-dinner tincture. It's over a week since any sign of Mr Mousebastard so fingers crossed........
No sign thereof so hope the bugger has gone elsewhere.

 On a note of celebration cos Ady and I had a bet on Wigan to beat Man City 1-0 at 74-1 and cleared £148 profit!!!.
Rock on.

Cheers for now

My  blog viewing figures for last week whilst down in  total are more disappointing in that the Russians have plummeted from 3rd plac...