I am depressed. I woke up this morning to the news that the UK housing market is in free-fall. Apparently our houses have lost 2.5% of their value in just the last month alone, being the seventh month in succession that house prices have fallen. So, I've just had more value knocked off the house than I spent on the new kitchen and bathroom. Great. Just great.
And, of course, this all happens at a time when the oil price is going mad. It is SO bad that I am actually in two minds as to whether I can afford to go to work. Seriously. I have a fifty mile commute. That's four hundred miles in a week (I work from homes on a Friday). And with the cost of Super Unleaded at something like £122 a litre and a fuel performance of around 20 mpg or so......
I know I could get a more fuel efficient car than an Audi TT but I do have an image to think about. And, there have to be some perks to all my hard work over the years! Now don't all you planet huggers and eco-terrorists start on me when I'm feeling down. And, no, public transport is not an option. I live in rural Cheshire (the bit with the M6 motorway going through the middle of it) and the nearest bus service is a good two and a half miles away. The bus only runs on a Tuesday. And, it doesn't go anywhere that I would want to.
Added to that, another joy of living the rural dream is that I now have to worry about the threat of someone breaking into my home heating oil tank and syphoning it all off. The cost of home heating oil (kerosene) has almost doubled in the last twelve months and it seems to have sparked a min-crime wave. We are not connected to the gas mains so we have no choice but to use oil. So, I can't afford to go to work and I can't afford to heat my water or my home!
So, we are economising. Economising mostly involves sacking ("letting go" was the term that C used) our gardener. The efficient and reliable guy who has mown our two expansive lawns and trimmed our hedges. Instead, this has become my job. So, a new petrol powered lawnmower (more bloody fuel cost) has been purchased and two hours or so of my life every other week or so will be given up to putting fresh stripes on the garden. But, do not fear, this is not the first sign of us becoming self-sufficient. Many of you will know of previous failed bids at achieving the Good Life. But we'll not be going there.......or will we?
Indeed, we may well have to turn the side garden over to vegetables. Either that or try and sell it to the government as a site for one of their new nuclear power stations....
I can't afford to drive. I can't afford to pay someone to cut the lawn (please God don't let the window cleaner put his prices up!). I can't afford hot water or heating. And, it is becoming increasingly hard to afford to eat. Sure, rice, bread, and pasta costs seem to have also rocketed around the world. While the good old potato is being touted as the planet's saviour, I am not allowed to eat them because of my summer diet. "We" are concerned about our bikini figure. And, thanks to bloody Jamie and Hugh I am now so emotionally scarred that I can only eat organic free range chicken from the Dali Lama's personal petting farm, at the cost of an arm and a leg. If it wasn't for Waitrose's wine offers we'd be destitute.....
So it looks as if I have to sell the car, give up work, buy a shotgun with which to guard the oil tank, wrap myself in a Waitrose Bag for Life just to keep warm, and dig for England. It's probably no bad thing. If you believe the other news headlining today, if I ever did step outside the front door I'd probably be attacked by a ten year old knife wielding crack addict! Always look on the bright side, eh?
Thursday, 29 May 2008
What Does An Eye Taste Like?
I don't have to watch the BBC Breakfast News to know who is doing the weather reports or which poor female reporter has got the bum seat on the big red sofa next to that smarmy, chinless, waste of space which is Bill Turnbull. No, these days I can pretty much guess who is on by checking out my blog's dashboard. Checking out the search engine terms that found my blog. So, today, my guess is that Louise Lear will be huddled under an umbrella in the Blue Peter Garden or somewhere, sporting one of her brightly coloured, tailored raincoats, while Louise Minchin has the unenviable tasks of bringing a semblance of dignity and professionalism to the news reports despite the best efforts of that poodle Turnbull to sabotage things with his ridiculous quips, died hair and plucked eyebrows.
I like to think of my dashboard as a bit of a barometer on the state of the world. So, what do you make of today's top ten? The ten top search engine terms which found my blog so far this morning are as follows:
1) Louise Lear
2) Kylie Minogue legs
3) "Louise Minchin"
4) Neighbours constant loud music
5) Neighbours from hell
6) Air France leg room
7) Sally James school uniform
8.) What does an eye taste like?
9) Female prefect caned
10) Cat Deeley topless
So, what do we make of all that? I can only assume that my blog is mostly visited by men of a certain age. Well, men of my age I would guess. That would no doubt explain the strange fantasies about the stars of Breakfast TV, Saturday morning childrens' TV presenters from across the ages, and Kylie of course. That said, I am not sure that her legs are Kylie's best features, and, you would need a magnifying glass to find Cat's prize assets. And, quite why "Louise Minchin" always appears within quotation marks I do not know. "Minchin" isn't a verb to do with sexual activity is it? Is it something humourous like Muffin the Mule?
I can emphasise and sympathise with those poor souls whose existance is blighted by a troublesome neighbour. I have been there. I have got that t-shirt. But, I am a little bemused as to what people were expecting to find in their quest for corporal punishment from a schoolgirl dominatrix? They will be sadly disappointed, underwhelmed, and, in need of a cold shower when they discover the not so rich pickings in Middleman's blogosphere........Why would anyone want to know what an eye would taste like? I can only assume that the answer to that is "It doesn't taste like chicken!"
I guess it is just another to add to the long list of life's unanswered questions. Why does toast always fall buttered side down? Why does asparagus make your wee smell like that? Why do fat chance and slim chance mean the same thing? How come Bill Turnbull is still employed? And, apparently, what is Louise Minchin's cup size?
Answers on a postcard please.
Tuesday, 13 May 2008
Brothers-In-Law In a Double Bed
Well, I had one of my thankfully infrequent "sleep talking" incidents again last night. While I am often prone to making the odd noise or crying out in my sleep, actually talking in my sleep or holding a conversation is less common. But, last night my better half was woken by me talking. When she endeavoured to get me to go to the spare room I replied along the lines of "But we haven't got there yet!" When she tried yet again I retorted, apparently having checked the time on the bedside clock, "But we still have five hours to get there!" Then I went and slept, somewhat furtively, in the spare room.
I moved to the spare room quite gingerly. I am still in recovery from the annual Lads' Walking Weekend which left me with a couple of knackered knees, a stiff right leg, and aches and pains all over my body. Ouch, ouch, ow, ouch. Presumably, my "sleep talking" was linked to the pain I was feeling and involuntary flashbacks to the trial of the weekend - six grumpy old men and their new young gimp (aged 32) walking from Westward Ho! to Bude, via Clovelly and Hartland Quay in bright sunshine, too little breeze, and, temperatures in the mid to high twenties. As far as I could tell, the Devonshire coast was truly beautiful, if the scenery was somewhat blurred through the tears of my pain.
Westward Ho!, apparently the only place in the UK with an exclamation mark in its name, could do with a lick of paint and a bit of care and attention. And, I would certainly sack the town planner. It was the usual pitiful array of run down B&Bs, fish and chip shops, and amusement arcades that is to be found in any English seaside resort. Thankfully, however, we were there just to eat, drink and sleep, arriving after 8pm. For, Westward Ho! is a strange place indeed.
The pub on the Friday night was packed with locals. The locals looked genetically challenged and spent most of the night discussing the size of their runner beans. They clearly didn't get out to the big city too often. Fashion there is by Primark and Matalan in Westward Ho! And, the pub grub was somewhat disappointing.
In the morning, we paid and bode farewell to our God Botherer host in the B&B -for which we received a blessing in return. We split the various chores between the group - shuffling cars to the next destination (including a spot of frankly unnecessary road rage from Volvo Man), and, buying lunch - and had a relaxed coffee under an umbrella from where we took in the view.
Westward Ho! was teaming with young surfer dudes sporting tans, six packs (lucky bastards) and very tacky tattoos; plump young girls sporting ice-creams (presumably as their puddings, having consumed a pasty or two before venturing out of doors); old women in wheelchairs being pushed about by their carers from the local home; and pasty looking families heading for the beach.
Much to our amusement, someone had left a pair of false teeth on the chair next to our table. This was retrieved by the waiter with a grimace and a pair of rubber gloves. Even funnier was the fact that the teeth's owner returned to retrieve them. He was a fat, bald, red-faced man with man-boobs that Jordan would have been proud of.
Oh, and then we walked, limped and hobbled our way the twelve miles or so to Clovelly.
Clovelly is a lovely spot with friendly cats and a tame fox. Apparently the village has been privately owned by the same family since 1066. Gleaming white cottages clinging to a steep cliff face with narrow cobbled streets leading down to a busy little quay. There are no cars in the village (they wouldn't fit) so everything gets transported by donkey and wooden sledge. Unfortunately, only half of our group made it in time for the six o'clock cream tea deadline. The walking wounded had to make do with a pint of beer. No prizes for guessing which camp yours truly was in.
I suspect that we may have made a slight impression on the inhabitants of Clovelly. There had been a slight mix-up over the rooms at our hotel, requiring two of our number to be located in a B&B a few doors further down the hill and two of our number almost came to blows when one suggested to the organiser of our little sojourn that he deserved a discount. Thankfully, after a few heated words at the dinner table they went outside and hugged it out. Eyebrows had been raised earlier in the Beer Garden when another of the Lads dropped his jar of Vaseline! The same Lad prompted more comedy by wearing a pair of old comfy slippers in which to descend the precarious cobbled slope to the pub at the quay after dinner. He is prone to blisters you see. I am not sure if news of our presence had preceded us to the pub, but once there one of the locals stated "you Lads must be either divers or fishermen". Unfortunately, neither.
Some of the loudest exchanges within our merry band, however, were around whose turn it was to share the double bed. Fortunately, I was excluded from this debate as I had paid extra for single occupancy throughout the weekend. As much as I love my mates, they snore, smell and fart, and, I like my privacy in the bathroom. And, I wish to spare them all the experience of me talking in my sleep. The two brothers-in-law unfortunately drew the short straws and had to share the double bed. This was rather un-nerving for the younger of the two (now known as the young gimp) as this was his first time on the Lads' Walk and the rest of us somehow gave him the impression that this was some sort of initiation rite. He too had spied the Vaseline earlier in the night. Whatever, the two brothers-in-law made a pact that whatever happened in the room, stayed in the room. And so it did, there was not a single muttering of spooning or an involuntary erection at the breakfast table.
Myself and one other unfortunately failed a late fitness test in the morning. We were not considered to be up to the full arduous ten miles or so from Clovelly to Hartland Quay. So, we offered to shuffle the cars, fill up on diesel, take in a coffee and the newspapers at Bude, and to start walking from the opposite end in order to meet up with the rest of the boys along the route.
Bude is a dump and seemingly bereft of a Starbucks or a single umbrella under which to perch while sipping a Latte. And so we ended up in a tiny, old-fashioned cafe where we were joined by a group of old people with Eastend accents and leathery faces lined like the streets of Venice. They had left their dogs howling in the car outside and reminisced about how one of their number had once been so sick eating spotted dick and custard that they hadn't been able to eat it for years afterwards. Bizarrely, one of the old girls ordered an Espresso coffee "but not too strong!"
Suitably refreshed, my fellow invalid and I commenced our walk to meet our mates. Bloody hell. What the buggers hadn't told us was that the stretch that we were doing was the hardest of the lot. And we had to do it twice. There and back. We endured five miles of agony. It was one steep descent followed by one steep climb after another. We were, frankly, buggered.
In truth, we are all beginning to feel our age now. Most of have resorted to using walking poles to take the pressure of ageing joints. And, those who didn't this year have vowed to do so next. The downside is that we are now so slow at the walking bit that we leave ourselves very little time for the drinking bit before collapsing in our beds through exhaustion. However, while we are all carrying a few more pounds than we have in the past, we, to a man, managed to suck it all in on cue while the very attractive blonde in the tight leggings walked past us at Bucks Mill. There was certainly no VPL there! Nice.
Thanks for a great weekend guys and see you next year. Now, where are those details of my BUPA subscription.
I moved to the spare room quite gingerly. I am still in recovery from the annual Lads' Walking Weekend which left me with a couple of knackered knees, a stiff right leg, and aches and pains all over my body. Ouch, ouch, ow, ouch. Presumably, my "sleep talking" was linked to the pain I was feeling and involuntary flashbacks to the trial of the weekend - six grumpy old men and their new young gimp (aged 32) walking from Westward Ho! to Bude, via Clovelly and Hartland Quay in bright sunshine, too little breeze, and, temperatures in the mid to high twenties. As far as I could tell, the Devonshire coast was truly beautiful, if the scenery was somewhat blurred through the tears of my pain.
Westward Ho!, apparently the only place in the UK with an exclamation mark in its name, could do with a lick of paint and a bit of care and attention. And, I would certainly sack the town planner. It was the usual pitiful array of run down B&Bs, fish and chip shops, and amusement arcades that is to be found in any English seaside resort. Thankfully, however, we were there just to eat, drink and sleep, arriving after 8pm. For, Westward Ho! is a strange place indeed.
The pub on the Friday night was packed with locals. The locals looked genetically challenged and spent most of the night discussing the size of their runner beans. They clearly didn't get out to the big city too often. Fashion there is by Primark and Matalan in Westward Ho! And, the pub grub was somewhat disappointing.
In the morning, we paid and bode farewell to our God Botherer host in the B&B -for which we received a blessing in return. We split the various chores between the group - shuffling cars to the next destination (including a spot of frankly unnecessary road rage from Volvo Man), and, buying lunch - and had a relaxed coffee under an umbrella from where we took in the view.
Westward Ho! was teaming with young surfer dudes sporting tans, six packs (lucky bastards) and very tacky tattoos; plump young girls sporting ice-creams (presumably as their puddings, having consumed a pasty or two before venturing out of doors); old women in wheelchairs being pushed about by their carers from the local home; and pasty looking families heading for the beach.
Much to our amusement, someone had left a pair of false teeth on the chair next to our table. This was retrieved by the waiter with a grimace and a pair of rubber gloves. Even funnier was the fact that the teeth's owner returned to retrieve them. He was a fat, bald, red-faced man with man-boobs that Jordan would have been proud of.
Oh, and then we walked, limped and hobbled our way the twelve miles or so to Clovelly.
Clovelly is a lovely spot with friendly cats and a tame fox. Apparently the village has been privately owned by the same family since 1066. Gleaming white cottages clinging to a steep cliff face with narrow cobbled streets leading down to a busy little quay. There are no cars in the village (they wouldn't fit) so everything gets transported by donkey and wooden sledge. Unfortunately, only half of our group made it in time for the six o'clock cream tea deadline. The walking wounded had to make do with a pint of beer. No prizes for guessing which camp yours truly was in.
I suspect that we may have made a slight impression on the inhabitants of Clovelly. There had been a slight mix-up over the rooms at our hotel, requiring two of our number to be located in a B&B a few doors further down the hill and two of our number almost came to blows when one suggested to the organiser of our little sojourn that he deserved a discount. Thankfully, after a few heated words at the dinner table they went outside and hugged it out. Eyebrows had been raised earlier in the Beer Garden when another of the Lads dropped his jar of Vaseline! The same Lad prompted more comedy by wearing a pair of old comfy slippers in which to descend the precarious cobbled slope to the pub at the quay after dinner. He is prone to blisters you see. I am not sure if news of our presence had preceded us to the pub, but once there one of the locals stated "you Lads must be either divers or fishermen". Unfortunately, neither.
Some of the loudest exchanges within our merry band, however, were around whose turn it was to share the double bed. Fortunately, I was excluded from this debate as I had paid extra for single occupancy throughout the weekend. As much as I love my mates, they snore, smell and fart, and, I like my privacy in the bathroom. And, I wish to spare them all the experience of me talking in my sleep. The two brothers-in-law unfortunately drew the short straws and had to share the double bed. This was rather un-nerving for the younger of the two (now known as the young gimp) as this was his first time on the Lads' Walk and the rest of us somehow gave him the impression that this was some sort of initiation rite. He too had spied the Vaseline earlier in the night. Whatever, the two brothers-in-law made a pact that whatever happened in the room, stayed in the room. And so it did, there was not a single muttering of spooning or an involuntary erection at the breakfast table.
Myself and one other unfortunately failed a late fitness test in the morning. We were not considered to be up to the full arduous ten miles or so from Clovelly to Hartland Quay. So, we offered to shuffle the cars, fill up on diesel, take in a coffee and the newspapers at Bude, and to start walking from the opposite end in order to meet up with the rest of the boys along the route.
Bude is a dump and seemingly bereft of a Starbucks or a single umbrella under which to perch while sipping a Latte. And so we ended up in a tiny, old-fashioned cafe where we were joined by a group of old people with Eastend accents and leathery faces lined like the streets of Venice. They had left their dogs howling in the car outside and reminisced about how one of their number had once been so sick eating spotted dick and custard that they hadn't been able to eat it for years afterwards. Bizarrely, one of the old girls ordered an Espresso coffee "but not too strong!"
Suitably refreshed, my fellow invalid and I commenced our walk to meet our mates. Bloody hell. What the buggers hadn't told us was that the stretch that we were doing was the hardest of the lot. And we had to do it twice. There and back. We endured five miles of agony. It was one steep descent followed by one steep climb after another. We were, frankly, buggered.
In truth, we are all beginning to feel our age now. Most of have resorted to using walking poles to take the pressure of ageing joints. And, those who didn't this year have vowed to do so next. The downside is that we are now so slow at the walking bit that we leave ourselves very little time for the drinking bit before collapsing in our beds through exhaustion. However, while we are all carrying a few more pounds than we have in the past, we, to a man, managed to suck it all in on cue while the very attractive blonde in the tight leggings walked past us at Bucks Mill. There was certainly no VPL there! Nice.
Thanks for a great weekend guys and see you next year. Now, where are those details of my BUPA subscription.
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