Signing off

Friday, May 9th, 2008 11:54 am
caddyman: (Default)
Right, weekend bag is packed and I'm off.

I have no idea what the computer situation is up in sunny Shropshire, so I may or may not post before Monday afternoon. Either way, I'm off now. Everyone have a good weekend and I'll see you on the other side.

Ciao, Dudes.

Signing off

Friday, May 9th, 2008 11:54 am
caddyman: (Default)
Right, weekend bag is packed and I'm off.

I have no idea what the computer situation is up in sunny Shropshire, so I may or may not post before Monday afternoon. Either way, I'm off now. Everyone have a good weekend and I'll see you on the other side.

Ciao, Dudes.
caddyman: (Gromit)
Mission accomplished.

I spent a little more than intended, but I now have pulsating next to my desk, a bag containing blocks of:

Cropwell Bishop Stilton,
Blue Wensleydale,
Berkswell, and a small
L'Edel de Cleron


I shall be leaving the office around four. I need to get this lot home before the Underground fills to excess. I can hear the Wensleydale and the Stilton comparing notes in hushed tones already…

Ooer.
caddyman: (Gromit)
Mission accomplished.

I spent a little more than intended, but I now have pulsating next to my desk, a bag containing blocks of:

Cropwell Bishop Stilton,
Blue Wensleydale,
Berkswell, and a small
L'Edel de Cleron


I shall be leaving the office around four. I need to get this lot home before the Underground fills to excess. I can hear the Wensleydale and the Stilton comparing notes in hushed tones already…

Ooer.

Whey out west

Friday, August 25th, 2006 10:47 am
caddyman: (coat of many colours)
This weekend serves both as the final bank holiday this side of Christmas and [livejournal.com profile] wallabok’s birthday do so it is out to buy significant amounts of the smelliest cheeses I can find at lunchtime ahead of the trip out to South Cambridgeshire tomorrow.

As much as I love my cheese, I am always a just a little wary of buying it in town and lugging it home. Not, I might add, that I have much choice. True, Waitrose have a reasonable cheese and deli counter, but it is limited. Sainsbury’s is about the same. No, if I want proper cheese, it has to be bought from somewhere central and that almost inevitably means the Rippon Cheese Store in Upper Tachbrook Street, Pimlico. I still like Neal’s Yard Dairy, but either of their outlets (Neal’s Yard and Borough Market) is just too far away from the office to make a trip at lunchtime a viable proposition and I don’t want to trail into the West End or out to Borough after work when I would much rather go home. Anyway, good as they are, Neal’s Yard only do cheeses from the British Isles, where as the Rippon Cheese Store casts its net wider.

Anyway, getting the stuff home is always problematic – particularly this time of year. A good cheese is almost invariably a steeenky cheese and a selection costing around twenty quid is not to be sniffed at.1 There is no way of wrapping the stuff that prevents the smell escaping; three layers of grease-proof paper, a card carrier and a plastic bag won’t do it, neither will more plastic wrapping. Shoving all that into a rucksack and zipping it shut doesn’t help much, either – it just takes a little longer for the smell to ooze out. Believe, me I have tried over the years but the smell of cheese will out.

Especially on a tube train where it is altogether too warm. Oh dear.

The only answer is to wave the bag around proudly and prominently, proving that the odd odour is emanating from dairy products, not insufficient hygiene. It can still be a bit of a pain, though.

Ho hum. May as well make the selection really stinky.

1Ha!

Whey out west

Friday, August 25th, 2006 10:47 am
caddyman: (coat of many colours)
This weekend serves both as the final bank holiday this side of Christmas and [livejournal.com profile] wallabok’s birthday do so it is out to buy significant amounts of the smelliest cheeses I can find at lunchtime ahead of the trip out to South Cambridgeshire tomorrow.

As much as I love my cheese, I am always a just a little wary of buying it in town and lugging it home. Not, I might add, that I have much choice. True, Waitrose have a reasonable cheese and deli counter, but it is limited. Sainsbury’s is about the same. No, if I want proper cheese, it has to be bought from somewhere central and that almost inevitably means the Rippon Cheese Store in Upper Tachbrook Street, Pimlico. I still like Neal’s Yard Dairy, but either of their outlets (Neal’s Yard and Borough Market) is just too far away from the office to make a trip at lunchtime a viable proposition and I don’t want to trail into the West End or out to Borough after work when I would much rather go home. Anyway, good as they are, Neal’s Yard only do cheeses from the British Isles, where as the Rippon Cheese Store casts its net wider.

Anyway, getting the stuff home is always problematic – particularly this time of year. A good cheese is almost invariably a steeenky cheese and a selection costing around twenty quid is not to be sniffed at.1 There is no way of wrapping the stuff that prevents the smell escaping; three layers of grease-proof paper, a card carrier and a plastic bag won’t do it, neither will more plastic wrapping. Shoving all that into a rucksack and zipping it shut doesn’t help much, either – it just takes a little longer for the smell to ooze out. Believe, me I have tried over the years but the smell of cheese will out.

Especially on a tube train where it is altogether too warm. Oh dear.

The only answer is to wave the bag around proudly and prominently, proving that the odd odour is emanating from dairy products, not insufficient hygiene. It can still be a bit of a pain, though.

Ho hum. May as well make the selection really stinky.

1Ha!

Friday afternoon

Friday, March 24th, 2006 04:13 pm
caddyman: (Default)
I am in the happy position of having work to do, but being unable to do it, and as it is late on Friday afternoon, my motivation is draining away very rapidly.

I am trying to interrogate our subsidy data base for another interminable and pointless PQ. The payments team are running some arcane tests on the system, which means that anything other than their diagnostic (makes me feel right Trekkie) exercise, is progressing to geological timescales. Part of the fun, if I can ever get the data down is that the question I am answering will return virtually nothing of use to the MP (yes, the same MP I have waffled about before). For someone who aims to reform the system, he betrays a shocking lack of familiarity with the subject of his ire.

This morning I had my annual job chat which went well. I now have to go and muck about with my objectives a bit to make them look better, but apart from that…

Lunchtime saw Yours Truly wandering out to buy a Mother’s Day card. I remember when it was Mothering Sunday, which to me, sounds better. I also took the opportunity to wander into half a dozen local mobile phone shops with a view to acquiring a new battery for my V3 Razr. This turned out to be far more problematic than I think it should be. I had to wander out of two shops because they were so full, finding an assistant was not dissimilar to locating the source of the Nile. Of the rest, only Vodafone sell batteries, all the other places were either out of stock or never sell them anyway, preferring to unload new phones on people instead. Given that when I eventually purchased the new battery, it cost £40 I’m not entirely sure that a new phone might not have been cheaper.

Still, if I am to upgrade at some point (not, I hope for another 12-18 months, but I‘ve said that before), it will be to the even funkier Motorola V3i or V3x.

Tonight I shall slob around, I think, and listen to music. Then I shall watch the West Wing and maybe last night’s House. Tomorrow, NWO fans, I shall be finishing off Marsilla the Golden, and then starting on Aurelia Dandolo. Please note that I am the only person on the NWO writing team who ever spells Dandolo correctly.

Friday afternoon

Friday, March 24th, 2006 04:13 pm
caddyman: (Default)
I am in the happy position of having work to do, but being unable to do it, and as it is late on Friday afternoon, my motivation is draining away very rapidly.

I am trying to interrogate our subsidy data base for another interminable and pointless PQ. The payments team are running some arcane tests on the system, which means that anything other than their diagnostic (makes me feel right Trekkie) exercise, is progressing to geological timescales. Part of the fun, if I can ever get the data down is that the question I am answering will return virtually nothing of use to the MP (yes, the same MP I have waffled about before). For someone who aims to reform the system, he betrays a shocking lack of familiarity with the subject of his ire.

This morning I had my annual job chat which went well. I now have to go and muck about with my objectives a bit to make them look better, but apart from that…

Lunchtime saw Yours Truly wandering out to buy a Mother’s Day card. I remember when it was Mothering Sunday, which to me, sounds better. I also took the opportunity to wander into half a dozen local mobile phone shops with a view to acquiring a new battery for my V3 Razr. This turned out to be far more problematic than I think it should be. I had to wander out of two shops because they were so full, finding an assistant was not dissimilar to locating the source of the Nile. Of the rest, only Vodafone sell batteries, all the other places were either out of stock or never sell them anyway, preferring to unload new phones on people instead. Given that when I eventually purchased the new battery, it cost £40 I’m not entirely sure that a new phone might not have been cheaper.

Still, if I am to upgrade at some point (not, I hope for another 12-18 months, but I‘ve said that before), it will be to the even funkier Motorola V3i or V3x.

Tonight I shall slob around, I think, and listen to music. Then I shall watch the West Wing and maybe last night’s House. Tomorrow, NWO fans, I shall be finishing off Marsilla the Golden, and then starting on Aurelia Dandolo. Please note that I am the only person on the NWO writing team who ever spells Dandolo correctly.
caddyman: (Default)
There is, in Greenwich, a small antiques shop with something horrid in the window. An ancient glass phial is involved, as is Formaldehyde. Something old and yellow is inside out and in the window. I do not believe that it is supposed to be either yellow or inside out. It gives me the fear.

The shop is a dusty old place, even by the standards of antique shops, and had it been open, we would have entered to see what marvels of the orient and times past (or both) were contained within. I am confident that I should have found the hand of the Jade Monkey and been dissuaded from purchasing it by an elderly Peter Cushing, exuding oddness and suppressed malevolence toward the unwary.

Sadly it was closed and we moved on.

Despite the vagaries of the Northern Line, which managed to ensure that it took three trains to get from Whetstone to London Bridge, despite both stations all being on the same line (weekend scheduling is conducted by a baboon with a pointy stick), I managed to meet [livejournal.com profile] _januarygirl_ at 1 'o'clock as arranged at Cutty Sark station on the DLR. It was touch and go for a while there, but I made it.

With a prescience denied to many, I recall predicting that once we came to write up the afternoon, there would only be a handful of events we could remember: for instance the bloody awful christmas tree stuck atop the foremast of the Cutty Sark herself (placed there no doubt by a hapless junior curator on punishment detail for some misdemeanour; in time past he would have been keel-hauled in the roaring forties, which doubtless have brought well-deserved tears to his eyes).

We ambled through a couple of markets packed with the strange and exotic oddments so beloved of the Lanes in Brighton, and bought by champagne socialists from deepest Islington; a sort of exotic mediaeval bazaar, but with Axminster rugs instead of Persian, and precious few spices from the South Seas. That said, spices were present in abundance in the particularly powerful mulled fruit punch introduced to me by [livejournal.com profile] _januarygirl_. I confess I spent fully the next twenty minutes under the influence of an unexpected vitamin attack (there being no alcohol present). Very warming and tasty. I recall it made me talk a lot.

There were other items of deep interest and dark foreboding for sale, particularly on the stall selling African tribal art, including some masks that would have appealed deeply to [livejournal.com profile] pax_draconis. I was sore tempted, but the lack of obvious price tags brought to mind the maxim "if you have to ask the price, you can't afford it", so armed with this sage wisdom, I walked away lighter of heart and heavier of wallet.

We next sought out the aforementioned antique shop, and though filled with foreboding, I shall have to go there again, when it is open for I am convinced that it is the mercantile equivalent of Tutankhamun's tomb, though I am resolved not to make the mistakes, and endure the fates of Mr Carter and Lord Caernarvon... Disappointed by the proprietor's concept of opening hours, we made for the river and walked along the embankment. The Thames at high tide is a strange creature, and though seemingly tranquil, little hands of water slap the various steps and corners, jumping up to smack the ankles of unwary passers. We were wise to the capricious ways of the Lady Isis and avoided the soggy-souled fate of the unobservant.

Somewhere to the south, it was evidently raining, and armed with my phone camera, I managed to grab this picture which does not do justice to the rainbow that arched across the river in the late afternoon sun:

Image hosted by Photobucket.com


A little further along, following the curve of the river, we saw some way off, the Millennium Dome. It had never occurred to me before that in profile it looks rather like a three-quarter buried Imperial Death Star, imperfectly disguised by the addition of Zeppelin docking masts. Something is afoot in South East London, and one day the world will know to its peril.

Then, the air temperatures cooling, we sauntered down back streets frequented at various times in the past by worthies such as Kit Marlowe and Samuel Pepys, before repairing to a hostelry by the name of the Yacht for a couple of pints and a chat. I think I might have rather hogged the conversation, as is my wont when exposed to too much fresh air and vitamins. I had a splendid time in the process, and I hope that I didn't bore poor Kathy rigid with the combination of wild flights of fancy and rambling obscurity.

If so, I do apologise.

And now to bed. The week ahead is a working week, and karmic compensation must be earned for the weekend past.
caddyman: (Default)
There is, in Greenwich, a small antiques shop with something horrid in the window. An ancient glass phial is involved, as is Formaldehyde. Something old and yellow is inside out and in the window. I do not believe that it is supposed to be either yellow or inside out. It gives me the fear.

The shop is a dusty old place, even by the standards of antique shops, and had it been open, we would have entered to see what marvels of the orient and times past (or both) were contained within. I am confident that I should have found the hand of the Jade Monkey and been dissuaded from purchasing it by an elderly Peter Cushing, exuding oddness and suppressed malevolence toward the unwary.

Sadly it was closed and we moved on.

Despite the vagaries of the Northern Line, which managed to ensure that it took three trains to get from Whetstone to London Bridge, despite both stations all being on the same line (weekend scheduling is conducted by a baboon with a pointy stick), I managed to meet [livejournal.com profile] _januarygirl_ at 1 'o'clock as arranged at Cutty Sark station on the DLR. It was touch and go for a while there, but I made it.

With a prescience denied to many, I recall predicting that once we came to write up the afternoon, there would only be a handful of events we could remember: for instance the bloody awful christmas tree stuck atop the foremast of the Cutty Sark herself (placed there no doubt by a hapless junior curator on punishment detail for some misdemeanour; in time past he would have been keel-hauled in the roaring forties, which doubtless have brought well-deserved tears to his eyes).

We ambled through a couple of markets packed with the strange and exotic oddments so beloved of the Lanes in Brighton, and bought by champagne socialists from deepest Islington; a sort of exotic mediaeval bazaar, but with Axminster rugs instead of Persian, and precious few spices from the South Seas. That said, spices were present in abundance in the particularly powerful mulled fruit punch introduced to me by [livejournal.com profile] _januarygirl_. I confess I spent fully the next twenty minutes under the influence of an unexpected vitamin attack (there being no alcohol present). Very warming and tasty. I recall it made me talk a lot.

There were other items of deep interest and dark foreboding for sale, particularly on the stall selling African tribal art, including some masks that would have appealed deeply to [livejournal.com profile] pax_draconis. I was sore tempted, but the lack of obvious price tags brought to mind the maxim "if you have to ask the price, you can't afford it", so armed with this sage wisdom, I walked away lighter of heart and heavier of wallet.

We next sought out the aforementioned antique shop, and though filled with foreboding, I shall have to go there again, when it is open for I am convinced that it is the mercantile equivalent of Tutankhamun's tomb, though I am resolved not to make the mistakes, and endure the fates of Mr Carter and Lord Caernarvon... Disappointed by the proprietor's concept of opening hours, we made for the river and walked along the embankment. The Thames at high tide is a strange creature, and though seemingly tranquil, little hands of water slap the various steps and corners, jumping up to smack the ankles of unwary passers. We were wise to the capricious ways of the Lady Isis and avoided the soggy-souled fate of the unobservant.

Somewhere to the south, it was evidently raining, and armed with my phone camera, I managed to grab this picture which does not do justice to the rainbow that arched across the river in the late afternoon sun:

Image hosted by Photobucket.com


A little further along, following the curve of the river, we saw some way off, the Millennium Dome. It had never occurred to me before that in profile it looks rather like a three-quarter buried Imperial Death Star, imperfectly disguised by the addition of Zeppelin docking masts. Something is afoot in South East London, and one day the world will know to its peril.

Then, the air temperatures cooling, we sauntered down back streets frequented at various times in the past by worthies such as Kit Marlowe and Samuel Pepys, before repairing to a hostelry by the name of the Yacht for a couple of pints and a chat. I think I might have rather hogged the conversation, as is my wont when exposed to too much fresh air and vitamins. I had a splendid time in the process, and I hope that I didn't bore poor Kathy rigid with the combination of wild flights of fancy and rambling obscurity.

If so, I do apologise.

And now to bed. The week ahead is a working week, and karmic compensation must be earned for the weekend past.
caddyman: (Default)
Damn you, Wallace and Gromit, damn you.1

I have just spent £26 on cheese. A nice big chunk of sentient Stilton, a decent size piece of Berkswell and a nicely mature single Cooleeney. But there is no Stinking Bishop, it has suddenly become harder to buy than a pork pie in Mecca. Until three months ago, no-one had ever heard of the bloody stuff; other than me and a bunch of Catholic priests who would buy it as a joke present for the bishop (the cheese emporium lies about a half way between the cathedral and the bishop’s residence), practically no-one knew of its existence. The rather sad looking cheese vendor (a man in a bowler hat and a butcher’s smock) informed me that he had ordered ten and had none delivered.

Such is the power of plasticine film stars.

I have bought instead, a cheese by the name of Vacherin Mont d’Or which I am informed is both runny and smelly2. So runny in fact, that it is served with a spoon.

I am led to understand that some people wrap it in tin foil, douse in wine and bake it for 10 minutes. This apparently makes it into something like a fondue but with none of the usual hassles.

My furry cardio-vascular system and I are intrigued by the prospect.


1But not really, of course.
2I am hopefully confident that it is actually a cheese with that description.
caddyman: (Default)
Damn you, Wallace and Gromit, damn you.1

I have just spent £26 on cheese. A nice big chunk of sentient Stilton, a decent size piece of Berkswell and a nicely mature single Cooleeney. But there is no Stinking Bishop, it has suddenly become harder to buy than a pork pie in Mecca. Until three months ago, no-one had ever heard of the bloody stuff; other than me and a bunch of Catholic priests who would buy it as a joke present for the bishop (the cheese emporium lies about a half way between the cathedral and the bishop’s residence), practically no-one knew of its existence. The rather sad looking cheese vendor (a man in a bowler hat and a butcher’s smock) informed me that he had ordered ten and had none delivered.

Such is the power of plasticine film stars.

I have bought instead, a cheese by the name of Vacherin Mont d’Or which I am informed is both runny and smelly2. So runny in fact, that it is served with a spoon.

I am led to understand that some people wrap it in tin foil, douse in wine and bake it for 10 minutes. This apparently makes it into something like a fondue but with none of the usual hassles.

My furry cardio-vascular system and I are intrigued by the prospect.


1But not really, of course.
2I am hopefully confident that it is actually a cheese with that description.
caddyman: (Default)
Ah, yes. It's 1.15 in the morning, and I really should have gone to bed, I guess. Naughty me. Slapped wrist.

We've just watched the season 1 finale of House and the pilot episode of same which we missed when it was first broadcast. This courtesy of the region 1 DVDs kindly lent by [livejournal.com profile] itsjustaname. There are a couple other episodes we missed, and probably these will get watched tomorrow evening. Then I guess I hit the torrents, because Heaven forbid we wait for season 2 to air over here.

The DVDs themselves are a bit of a challenge as they are double-sided, and the episode details are written on the groove around the centre hole of the DVD. Happily my microscopic vision, whilst intermittent, is not yet completely defunct provided I hold the DVDs at least a foot from my eyes; time, I think, for that much delayed eye test. The long vision is becoming noticeable; I may be sporting spectacles next time you see me. The curse of long vision is that you can see your enemies coming from a distance, but once they've caught up with you, you can't see if they've gone so you have to be polite just in case.

A little piece of the universe was made plain to me this weekend, through close observation of the weather. Saturday, being 5 November was of course, Guy Fawkes night with fireworks and bonfires aplenty. The weather had been windy and wet for about ten days , but on Friday night it cleared to fresh and crisp with barely a breeze. I took this to be a sign that God is a protestant, who dislikes 17th century Catholics with treasonous tendencies. Of course, it pissed down with howling gales on Guy Fawkes night itself. The Friday weather proving to be a case of false hope.

This was proof that I was wrong, and God is in fact a Catholic with a sense of humour.

Good night.
caddyman: (Default)
Ah, yes. It's 1.15 in the morning, and I really should have gone to bed, I guess. Naughty me. Slapped wrist.

We've just watched the season 1 finale of House and the pilot episode of same which we missed when it was first broadcast. This courtesy of the region 1 DVDs kindly lent by [livejournal.com profile] itsjustaname. There are a couple other episodes we missed, and probably these will get watched tomorrow evening. Then I guess I hit the torrents, because Heaven forbid we wait for season 2 to air over here.

The DVDs themselves are a bit of a challenge as they are double-sided, and the episode details are written on the groove around the centre hole of the DVD. Happily my microscopic vision, whilst intermittent, is not yet completely defunct provided I hold the DVDs at least a foot from my eyes; time, I think, for that much delayed eye test. The long vision is becoming noticeable; I may be sporting spectacles next time you see me. The curse of long vision is that you can see your enemies coming from a distance, but once they've caught up with you, you can't see if they've gone so you have to be polite just in case.

A little piece of the universe was made plain to me this weekend, through close observation of the weather. Saturday, being 5 November was of course, Guy Fawkes night with fireworks and bonfires aplenty. The weather had been windy and wet for about ten days , but on Friday night it cleared to fresh and crisp with barely a breeze. I took this to be a sign that God is a protestant, who dislikes 17th century Catholics with treasonous tendencies. Of course, it pissed down with howling gales on Guy Fawkes night itself. The Friday weather proving to be a case of false hope.

This was proof that I was wrong, and God is in fact a Catholic with a sense of humour.

Good night.
caddyman: (Default)
I have had a great deal of rest this weekend. Friday just got worse and worse, and by the evening it was all hands to the pumps. Saturday did not therefore really happen, much of it being spent catching up on the sleep I did not get on Friday night. I have back tracked over the events preceding and am blaming Thursday night's curry, although I would normally expect that to hammer the system earlier.

No matter, all is well now, though I did miss the NWO plot meeting chez [livejournal.com profile] pax_draconis. I expect that will take some catching up on, and if the boards stay down as they seem to be right now, that could be a real pain.

By contrast with yesterday, today has been a buzz of activity. A mere 6 months after moving into the Athenaeum Club, I have finally shifted all my stuff into The Tower and stowed it in various hiding places. I can now, with only mild hypocrisy and a cheery wave at irony, lord it over DT, who still has a couple of boxes downstairs despite having lived here for two years. Interestingly, we have found a bag of odd, tie-dye tee shirts, including a gaudy yellow job with a smiley face on it, hidden in a carrier bag downstairs. Neither of us lay claim to this slice of late '60s, early '70s psychedelia. I have dark suspicions about the sartorial arrangements of some of the former inhabitants of the Athenaeum Club, and will be making discreet enquiries during Thursday night's game...

Once I have typed this out, I shall be lunking laundry downstairs and ironing a shirt for the morning. This, of course, will be after the usual watusi during which I coax the duvet into a clean cover. You, gentle reader, will recall that the only way I can do this is to get into the bloody duvet cover with the duvet. It is probably more entertaining in the telling than in actuality, for the late summer temperatures here in the Athenaeum Club, or as I like to think of it right now, the Sahara, anything involving stripping and remaking the bed in such a fashion will leave me gasping for breath and setting off flares to attract passing search and rescue helicopters. And these are in short supply in the north of London, let me tell you.

Ah well. Time to be up and at it again before this latest bout of enthusiastic activity wears off and I descend, sloth like, into my usual couch potato routine.

Ciao, doods.

NB. No. The title has nothing to do with the content. Regard it as an attention-grabber.
NB2. Yes, I am that needy.
NB3. But not really. Just messin' with ya.
caddyman: (Default)
I have had a great deal of rest this weekend. Friday just got worse and worse, and by the evening it was all hands to the pumps. Saturday did not therefore really happen, much of it being spent catching up on the sleep I did not get on Friday night. I have back tracked over the events preceding and am blaming Thursday night's curry, although I would normally expect that to hammer the system earlier.

No matter, all is well now, though I did miss the NWO plot meeting chez [livejournal.com profile] pax_draconis. I expect that will take some catching up on, and if the boards stay down as they seem to be right now, that could be a real pain.

By contrast with yesterday, today has been a buzz of activity. A mere 6 months after moving into the Athenaeum Club, I have finally shifted all my stuff into The Tower and stowed it in various hiding places. I can now, with only mild hypocrisy and a cheery wave at irony, lord it over DT, who still has a couple of boxes downstairs despite having lived here for two years. Interestingly, we have found a bag of odd, tie-dye tee shirts, including a gaudy yellow job with a smiley face on it, hidden in a carrier bag downstairs. Neither of us lay claim to this slice of late '60s, early '70s psychedelia. I have dark suspicions about the sartorial arrangements of some of the former inhabitants of the Athenaeum Club, and will be making discreet enquiries during Thursday night's game...

Once I have typed this out, I shall be lunking laundry downstairs and ironing a shirt for the morning. This, of course, will be after the usual watusi during which I coax the duvet into a clean cover. You, gentle reader, will recall that the only way I can do this is to get into the bloody duvet cover with the duvet. It is probably more entertaining in the telling than in actuality, for the late summer temperatures here in the Athenaeum Club, or as I like to think of it right now, the Sahara, anything involving stripping and remaking the bed in such a fashion will leave me gasping for breath and setting off flares to attract passing search and rescue helicopters. And these are in short supply in the north of London, let me tell you.

Ah well. Time to be up and at it again before this latest bout of enthusiastic activity wears off and I descend, sloth like, into my usual couch potato routine.

Ciao, doods.

NB. No. The title has nothing to do with the content. Regard it as an attention-grabber.
NB2. Yes, I am that needy.
NB3. But not really. Just messin' with ya.
caddyman: (Default)
Hmm. I'm at something of a loss for something to do right now. I can play on the computer, but as I have three torrents downloading, I am loath to do anything that may slow them down, which really rather limits the amount of surfing I can do. I think this is a hangover from my dial up days; there's really no reason not to carry on as normal when you have 2mb broadband, but somehow it doesn't feel right. I'm sure that I'll wean myself off this bizarre self imposed inhibition at some point.

I might try and do a little writing afterwards, though I have to admit that I am not really in the mood. I feel like doing something time-wastingly pointless, but which doesn't require a great deal of effort. Which is pretty much what I've been doing all day, really, and using the cricket as a vehicle for my laziness.

The third day's play in the 2nd Test at Edgbaston has been one of those that only the Ashes series can kick out. England looked to be going for one of their characteristically useless second innings, and undoing all the fine work they had put in during their and the Aussies' first innings, and then came in Freddie Flintoff who almost single-handedly turned things around with 73 runs (including a 50 partnership for the final wicket), and this with an injured left shoulder. Then, during the Aussies' second innings, just as it looked as though the English bowlers were going to let them off lightly, Vaughan calls Freddie back into the attack, and he takes two wickets in one over, and suddenly the game has swung back our way.

At the end of play, Australia were 175-8. Two tail-enders left to try and get 107 runs tomorrow. If they were playing anyone other than England, I would expect it to be over by lunchtime with the Aussies dead and buried.

But.

Still, a good day's entertainment, and we should level up the series ahead of the third test next week.

But it's the Ashes...
caddyman: (Default)
Hmm. I'm at something of a loss for something to do right now. I can play on the computer, but as I have three torrents downloading, I am loath to do anything that may slow them down, which really rather limits the amount of surfing I can do. I think this is a hangover from my dial up days; there's really no reason not to carry on as normal when you have 2mb broadband, but somehow it doesn't feel right. I'm sure that I'll wean myself off this bizarre self imposed inhibition at some point.

I might try and do a little writing afterwards, though I have to admit that I am not really in the mood. I feel like doing something time-wastingly pointless, but which doesn't require a great deal of effort. Which is pretty much what I've been doing all day, really, and using the cricket as a vehicle for my laziness.

The third day's play in the 2nd Test at Edgbaston has been one of those that only the Ashes series can kick out. England looked to be going for one of their characteristically useless second innings, and undoing all the fine work they had put in during their and the Aussies' first innings, and then came in Freddie Flintoff who almost single-handedly turned things around with 73 runs (including a 50 partnership for the final wicket), and this with an injured left shoulder. Then, during the Aussies' second innings, just as it looked as though the English bowlers were going to let them off lightly, Vaughan calls Freddie back into the attack, and he takes two wickets in one over, and suddenly the game has swung back our way.

At the end of play, Australia were 175-8. Two tail-enders left to try and get 107 runs tomorrow. If they were playing anyone other than England, I would expect it to be over by lunchtime with the Aussies dead and buried.

But.

Still, a good day's entertainment, and we should level up the series ahead of the third test next week.

But it's the Ashes...
caddyman: (Default)
This is the briefest of updates, and I'm only doing it because I am hopelessly addicted to LJ.

Today is the first day of my week off work, and I am in South Cambridgeshire, having arrived on Saturday evening with a Swede in tow, for Lil' Maxi's Christening.

Claret, and not the good type )

Finally, and unrelatedly, because I am not at home this week, I have just received an email telling me that our 2mb upgrade for teh intarweb is now complete. Half of me says. "Hurrah", the other half says, "Bugger".
caddyman: (Default)
This is the briefest of updates, and I'm only doing it because I am hopelessly addicted to LJ.

Today is the first day of my week off work, and I am in South Cambridgeshire, having arrived on Saturday evening with a Swede in tow, for Lil' Maxi's Christening.

Claret, and not the good type )

Finally, and unrelatedly, because I am not at home this week, I have just received an email telling me that our 2mb upgrade for teh intarweb is now complete. Half of me says. "Hurrah", the other half says, "Bugger".

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