Book 'em, Danno

Well, that’s that. I suppose I now have to rewrite the bio page for this journal as I have now tipped into the early stages of my sixth decade. Lawks a mercy, Mama, I don’t feel that much different in myself to when I was 18, except that I no longer hanker after flares and platforms and cannot tolerate vinyl-covered wallpaper with big orange flowers on it. Despite myself then, the march of fashion and taste hasn’t passed me by completely, though it has to be said that flares suited my tree trunk legs far better than drain pipes ever did or will.

Like the Monarch, I am celebrating my jubilee twice. The actual day was yesterday – thanks to those of you who expressed good wishes; a shilling goes to the karma pixies on each of your behalves, to placate fate and all that – and the official celebration will be as advertised on Saturday, though due to weather concerns and the credit crunch, I have cancelled the fly-past by the Red Arrows and the Battle of Britain Flight and the band of the Coldstream Guards will appear by iPod only, if at all. I am also ware that inclement weather conditions currently happening to places north and west of the capital make it exceedingly possible that my London-based chums and I will have far more sarnies to eat than we can comfortably manage, but I am sure we will soldier on. In the meantime, grin fixed to face, I refuse to tempt the Lords of Fate and their servants, the Karma Pixies by complaining.

Yesterday day time was insanely busy, which is why I restrained myself to a single friends-locked post about work and the increasing surreality (apparently I have just coined this word) thereof.

In the evening, Furtle and I celebrated by watching wall-to-wall episodes of 24, as it is at far too exciting a stage to allow such things as birthdays to divert us from it, and eating peppered steak and home made stilton potatoes with peas and a very passable Madeira sauce. The potatoes were made to a recipe concocted by Furtle herself. While they were warm, I awarded them three forks and two tines on the chobble-ometer, but when we snaffled the cold leftovers a little later, I revised my opinion to four full forks.

I find myself now in possession of much tribute for my jubilee: an acrylic Belkin case for my iPod, the complete Cadfael DVD collection starring everybody’s top-five old thesp, Derek Jacobi, plus the Dr Who “Beneath the Surface” box set, including one Davison and two Pertwee adventures. I am looking forward to exploring these discs, particularly the Cadfaels as it seems that Furtle never saw them, though she has read a few of the books.

I’d better get some work done now; I was late in on account of signal failures on the Northern Line and suspension of the service between High Barnet and Finchley Central. No snow to blame today, simply rusty Edwardian equipment still in use a century later despite years of soaking us with above inflation annual fare rises.

Later, Dudes.

Book 'em, Danno

Well, that’s that. I suppose I now have to rewrite the bio page for this journal as I have now tipped into the early stages of my sixth decade. Lawks a mercy, Mama, I don’t feel that much different in myself to when I was 18, except that I no longer hanker after flares and platforms and cannot tolerate vinyl-covered wallpaper with big orange flowers on it. Despite myself then, the march of fashion and taste hasn’t passed me by completely, though it has to be said that flares suited my tree trunk legs far better than drain pipes ever did or will.

Like the Monarch, I am celebrating my jubilee twice. The actual day was yesterday – thanks to those of you who expressed good wishes; a shilling goes to the karma pixies on each of your behalves, to placate fate and all that – and the official celebration will be as advertised on Saturday, though due to weather concerns and the credit crunch, I have cancelled the fly-past by the Red Arrows and the Battle of Britain Flight and the band of the Coldstream Guards will appear by iPod only, if at all. I am also ware that inclement weather conditions currently happening to places north and west of the capital make it exceedingly possible that my London-based chums and I will have far more sarnies to eat than we can comfortably manage, but I am sure we will soldier on. In the meantime, grin fixed to face, I refuse to tempt the Lords of Fate and their servants, the Karma Pixies by complaining.

Yesterday day time was insanely busy, which is why I restrained myself to a single friends-locked post about work and the increasing surreality (apparently I have just coined this word) thereof.

In the evening, Furtle and I celebrated by watching wall-to-wall episodes of 24, as it is at far too exciting a stage to allow such things as birthdays to divert us from it, and eating peppered steak and home made stilton potatoes with peas and a very passable Madeira sauce. The potatoes were made to a recipe concocted by Furtle herself. While they were warm, I awarded them three forks and two tines on the chobble-ometer, but when we snaffled the cold leftovers a little later, I revised my opinion to four full forks.

I find myself now in possession of much tribute for my jubilee: an acrylic Belkin case for my iPod, the complete Cadfael DVD collection starring everybody’s top-five old thesp, Derek Jacobi, plus the Dr Who “Beneath the Surface” box set, including one Davison and two Pertwee adventures. I am looking forward to exploring these discs, particularly the Cadfaels as it seems that Furtle never saw them, though she has read a few of the books.

I’d better get some work done now; I was late in on account of signal failures on the Northern Line and suspension of the service between High Barnet and Finchley Central. No snow to blame today, simply rusty Edwardian equipment still in use a century later despite years of soaking us with above inflation annual fare rises.

Later, Dudes.