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Twas the Saturday at Easter
Sunday, April 12th, 2009 02:22 pmYesterday we decided to wander down to North Finchley. My primary reason was to buy a new rucksack - my old, free one from Cotton Trades is in an advanced stage of collapse. Furtle was after a few implements, too, so we decided to walk there and back as a nod to the need for a little exercise.
Having looked through all the options in the shop, I decided that the heavily discounted "been in stock since Adam was a lad" rucksack that I ended up buying for a whole £7.99 looked about the same and seemed far more sturdily-made than many of its rather more expensive stable mates. I could easily have spent upwards of £60, but at that point you are beginning to get into the realms of backpacks designed for yomping across South Falkland in mid Winter, rather than carting stuff to and from work and the occasional trip further afield. We shall see if the cheap route proves to be the best route.
It was more effort than you would believe to find a decent set of skewers. Robert Dyas had some, but they were for making kebabs and were twisty and strangely shaped. This is fine in its way, but Furtle simply wanted something she can prod a freshly baked cake with to test that it is finished without having to dissect and potentially mangle it with a knife. In the end, we found a set of four in the pound shop. Neither Robert Dyas nor the pound shop could furnish us with a palate knife, but we did find a nice plastic spatula for mixing batter and other intricate baking stuff.
Despite our best efforts we were unable to find any books we fancied in Waterstones, though we did blow a tenner on Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull on DVD. That turned out to be rather a disappointing purchase. Even though we had been prepared to an extent by friends' reviews, everyone had pretty much understated the level of poo that it actually. I might have enjoyed it more had they changed the character name and we could have pretended that it was and Indie homage rather than fast-food Indie lite. Shame on you, Steven Spielberg; shame on you.
Walking back home, we thought it might be nice to pop into the pub for a restorative pint of BEER.
A plate of potato wedges, a plate of garlic bread and four pints of Amstel apiece later we wobbled out full of bonhomie and advanced on Waitrose to purchase a fresh chicken, having been overtaken by the need for a roast dinner.
In addition to the aforementioned Indiana Jones movie, we watched the Easter Dr Who special, Planet of the Dead. Well, it wasn't boring, but I'm not sure why. Nothing happened, but it didn't happen at a break neck speed. This is a measure of Rusty's writing. It is generally only afterwards that you have time to dwell on the plot holes and let's face it, they are there like Swiss cheese, but he can write a story that fairly romps along. Entertaining pap; I remain hopeful that Steven Moffat can inject a little more weight before the world at large realises that the Emperor's wardrobe isn't quite what they think it is and the programme disappears into history perhaps this time forever. I shall miss Tennant's Doctor, I shall not miss Rusty's writing.
Right now, I fancy more coffee. Later, dudes.
Having looked through all the options in the shop, I decided that the heavily discounted "been in stock since Adam was a lad" rucksack that I ended up buying for a whole £7.99 looked about the same and seemed far more sturdily-made than many of its rather more expensive stable mates. I could easily have spent upwards of £60, but at that point you are beginning to get into the realms of backpacks designed for yomping across South Falkland in mid Winter, rather than carting stuff to and from work and the occasional trip further afield. We shall see if the cheap route proves to be the best route.
It was more effort than you would believe to find a decent set of skewers. Robert Dyas had some, but they were for making kebabs and were twisty and strangely shaped. This is fine in its way, but Furtle simply wanted something she can prod a freshly baked cake with to test that it is finished without having to dissect and potentially mangle it with a knife. In the end, we found a set of four in the pound shop. Neither Robert Dyas nor the pound shop could furnish us with a palate knife, but we did find a nice plastic spatula for mixing batter and other intricate baking stuff.
Despite our best efforts we were unable to find any books we fancied in Waterstones, though we did blow a tenner on Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull on DVD. That turned out to be rather a disappointing purchase. Even though we had been prepared to an extent by friends' reviews, everyone had pretty much understated the level of poo that it actually. I might have enjoyed it more had they changed the character name and we could have pretended that it was and Indie homage rather than fast-food Indie lite. Shame on you, Steven Spielberg; shame on you.
Walking back home, we thought it might be nice to pop into the pub for a restorative pint of BEER.
A plate of potato wedges, a plate of garlic bread and four pints of Amstel apiece later we wobbled out full of bonhomie and advanced on Waitrose to purchase a fresh chicken, having been overtaken by the need for a roast dinner.
In addition to the aforementioned Indiana Jones movie, we watched the Easter Dr Who special, Planet of the Dead. Well, it wasn't boring, but I'm not sure why. Nothing happened, but it didn't happen at a break neck speed. This is a measure of Rusty's writing. It is generally only afterwards that you have time to dwell on the plot holes and let's face it, they are there like Swiss cheese, but he can write a story that fairly romps along. Entertaining pap; I remain hopeful that Steven Moffat can inject a little more weight before the world at large realises that the Emperor's wardrobe isn't quite what they think it is and the programme disappears into history perhaps this time forever. I shall miss Tennant's Doctor, I shall not miss Rusty's writing.
Right now, I fancy more coffee. Later, dudes.