My Hell's more Hellish than yours.

tangled telephone cables
Circle I Limbo

Spam with chips and spam
Circle II Whirling in a Dark & Stormy Wind

Spam
Circle III Mud, Rain, Cold, Hail & Snow

eggs, bacon, spam, eggs and spam
Circle IV Rolling Weights

spam, spam, spam, spam and spam
Circle V Stuck in Mud, Mangled

River Styx

Ham, eggs, tomatoes and spam
Circle VI Buried for Eternity

River Phlegyas

spam, spam, bacon, spam, spam, spam and spam
Circle VII Burning Sands

spam, spam, spam, spam eggs and spam
Circle IIX Immersed in Excrement

Tony Blair, spam, spam, spam, spam, spam, Alistair Campbell and spam
Circle IX Frozen in Ice

Design your own hell

My Hell's more Hellish than yours.

tangled telephone cables
Circle I Limbo

Spam with chips and spam
Circle II Whirling in a Dark & Stormy Wind

Spam
Circle III Mud, Rain, Cold, Hail & Snow

eggs, bacon, spam, eggs and spam
Circle IV Rolling Weights

spam, spam, spam, spam and spam
Circle V Stuck in Mud, Mangled

River Styx

Ham, eggs, tomatoes and spam
Circle VI Buried for Eternity

River Phlegyas

spam, spam, bacon, spam, spam, spam and spam
Circle VII Burning Sands

spam, spam, spam, spam eggs and spam
Circle IIX Immersed in Excrement

Tony Blair, spam, spam, spam, spam, spam, Alistair Campbell and spam
Circle IX Frozen in Ice

Design your own hell

(no subject)

The Polish nation is, I think, unlike any other on Earth.

Now and again, Mrs Z, my Polish landlady decides that my attempts at keeping my kitchen spick and span are less than adequate.

She may be right.

However, the way she remedies this is to inform me a few days in advance (implicitly allowing me time to remove the more incriminating evidence) that on such and such a day, directly after appel she will send the Goon Squad in to round up the slower members of the Polish Brigade(tm) who will 'clean the floor' but won't touch anything else, "promise."

This won't touch anything else bit is important as I have (and have had for some years) in my kitchen a headless statuette of Mrs Peel decapitated by an overzealous slav who then lost the head to boot. (I keep it in the hopes that one day I can work out how to fix this sad lack of bean).

Anyway the latest foray, for which I shall be charged the princely sum of a fiver in due course, took place yesterday. And the results of this incursion have taken a turn for the surreal, not to say out-and-out Dada.

My kitchen is, largely as I left it, except that there is evidence that someone has moved a damp rag over the work surface. All my pots, pans, plates, cups and cutlery - except the single dirty mug and saucepan in which I made a milk drink before going to work- have been washed in such a manner that I shall have to wash them again or risk contracting botulism.

The headless Mrs Peel is now wearing a lampshade, though the ceiling light is a bare bulb.

Meanwhile, next door, selected members of the Polish Brigade(tm) are laughing and playing what might just be Bulgarian folk music judging by the horrendous cacophany emanating through the open door. It is every bit as teeth grindingly noisome as serratia observed in my posting for yesterday.

Periodically there are peals of high-pitched girlish laughter which drown out the Noiska Bulgarika.

And every dog in Clapham howls.

Not far from Halloween, now, are we?

(no subject)

The Polish nation is, I think, unlike any other on Earth.

Now and again, Mrs Z, my Polish landlady decides that my attempts at keeping my kitchen spick and span are less than adequate.

She may be right.

However, the way she remedies this is to inform me a few days in advance (implicitly allowing me time to remove the more incriminating evidence) that on such and such a day, directly after appel she will send the Goon Squad in to round up the slower members of the Polish Brigade(tm) who will 'clean the floor' but won't touch anything else, "promise."

This won't touch anything else bit is important as I have (and have had for some years) in my kitchen a headless statuette of Mrs Peel decapitated by an overzealous slav who then lost the head to boot. (I keep it in the hopes that one day I can work out how to fix this sad lack of bean).

Anyway the latest foray, for which I shall be charged the princely sum of a fiver in due course, took place yesterday. And the results of this incursion have taken a turn for the surreal, not to say out-and-out Dada.

My kitchen is, largely as I left it, except that there is evidence that someone has moved a damp rag over the work surface. All my pots, pans, plates, cups and cutlery - except the single dirty mug and saucepan in which I made a milk drink before going to work- have been washed in such a manner that I shall have to wash them again or risk contracting botulism.

The headless Mrs Peel is now wearing a lampshade, though the ceiling light is a bare bulb.

Meanwhile, next door, selected members of the Polish Brigade(tm) are laughing and playing what might just be Bulgarian folk music judging by the horrendous cacophany emanating through the open door. It is every bit as teeth grindingly noisome as serratia observed in my posting for yesterday.

Periodically there are peals of high-pitched girlish laughter which drown out the Noiska Bulgarika.

And every dog in Clapham howls.

Not far from Halloween, now, are we?