Au Revoir, Bank Holiday

Bank Holiday weekend, the last now before Christmas. That's a long run in.

Saturday I went up to Foxton for wallabok's birthday, leaving Furtle in London to get confused about her options and end up AQAing on the computer and indulging in a little World of Warcraft. That wasn't quite what was supposed to happen, but there you go. Those of you who read this screed often enough to keep up with my goings-on will know that Our Hero has been trying to lose weight and with some success, I might add. The trip up to Foxton suggested that I am at that sartorial crossroads where I get the worst of all worlds.

I was sitting on the tube on the way down to Euston (recall if you will, previous gripes about that), minding my own business when my belt died. It died suddenly and unexpectedly and in a fashion that I would not have anticipated. I have had belts keel over before, it is the curse of the lardy boy, but usually there is a protracted death and measures can be taken against the day you garment breathes its last. Not this time. The buckle spontaneously detached itself from the belt leaving me with an awkward problem. I still have many tons to shed before I reach my intended weight, but whilst in may be mainly apparent to me only, my waist is a couple of inches closer to the svelte than was the case a few months ago. Not enough to occasion a wardrobe change, but enough to make a good belt rather more necessary. Scurrying between platforms, standing on the tube up to King's Cross and then scuttling along the platform to get the overland to Foxton necessitated some ingenious camouflaging of the waistband, which was being held by one hand while my bag and coat were being supported by the other. See, that missing couple of inches would, in months past held my suitably voluminous trollies up with no need to worry provided I tried no odd manoeuvres. No longer. Luckily I had (for the first time ever) a spare belt in my bag, which I managed to access and use relatively discreetly once I had entrained. I still nee to buy another, though.

Sunday was the party itself and a good time was had. I was rather surprisingly presented with a home grown cucumber to bring back with me. I am not sure what, if anything this act betokens, but Furtle tells me that it is in fact a snozzcumber (see Roald Dahl for details).


That's pretty much it for the weekend which, beyond the events reported was spent chilling out.

I cannot leave you, however, without returning to Friday night, when a weary caddyman decided to turn in. I strolled into the bedroom to find ellefurtle already asleep and hogging the middle of the bed as is her wont. Taking stock of the space available to me, I quickly realised that I would have to gently persuade her to move over so that I could get into bed myself. This seemed to go well enough and having arranged enough room for me to lie down, the still asleep Furtle suddenly rolled over and announced earnestly and in some exasperation, "You don't understand, it's the GREMLINS; I've got concrete boobs."

I mused this information for some minutes while she continued to sleep.

Au Revoir, Bank Holiday

Bank Holiday weekend, the last now before Christmas. That's a long run in.

Saturday I went up to Foxton for wallabok's birthday, leaving Furtle in London to get confused about her options and end up AQAing on the computer and indulging in a little World of Warcraft. That wasn't quite what was supposed to happen, but there you go. Those of you who read this screed often enough to keep up with my goings-on will know that Our Hero has been trying to lose weight and with some success, I might add. The trip up to Foxton suggested that I am at that sartorial crossroads where I get the worst of all worlds.

I was sitting on the tube on the way down to Euston (recall if you will, previous gripes about that), minding my own business when my belt died. It died suddenly and unexpectedly and in a fashion that I would not have anticipated. I have had belts keel over before, it is the curse of the lardy boy, but usually there is a protracted death and measures can be taken against the day you garment breathes its last. Not this time. The buckle spontaneously detached itself from the belt leaving me with an awkward problem. I still have many tons to shed before I reach my intended weight, but whilst in may be mainly apparent to me only, my waist is a couple of inches closer to the svelte than was the case a few months ago. Not enough to occasion a wardrobe change, but enough to make a good belt rather more necessary. Scurrying between platforms, standing on the tube up to King's Cross and then scuttling along the platform to get the overland to Foxton necessitated some ingenious camouflaging of the waistband, which was being held by one hand while my bag and coat were being supported by the other. See, that missing couple of inches would, in months past held my suitably voluminous trollies up with no need to worry provided I tried no odd manoeuvres. No longer. Luckily I had (for the first time ever) a spare belt in my bag, which I managed to access and use relatively discreetly once I had entrained. I still nee to buy another, though.

Sunday was the party itself and a good time was had. I was rather surprisingly presented with a home grown cucumber to bring back with me. I am not sure what, if anything this act betokens, but Furtle tells me that it is in fact a snozzcumber (see Roald Dahl for details).


That's pretty much it for the weekend which, beyond the events reported was spent chilling out.

I cannot leave you, however, without returning to Friday night, when a weary caddyman decided to turn in. I strolled into the bedroom to find ellefurtle already asleep and hogging the middle of the bed as is her wont. Taking stock of the space available to me, I quickly realised that I would have to gently persuade her to move over so that I could get into bed myself. This seemed to go well enough and having arranged enough room for me to lie down, the still asleep Furtle suddenly rolled over and announced earnestly and in some exasperation, "You don't understand, it's the GREMLINS; I've got concrete boobs."

I mused this information for some minutes while she continued to sleep.

Abraxas

As a comic book reader of somne years standing, I am rather surprised that I never made the connection before.

Last I recall, Miracleman's¹ alter ego, Mike Moran (a journalist, not the record producer) had left a note to his other self asking to be left in limbo and then uttered his 'magic word' to become Miracleman permanently. It was a form of suicide in that he couldn't cope with being ordinary when there was a supepowered version of himself available. Poignant enough in a four-colour way.

I am a little worried, therefore, to make the following connection. Does Miracleman have another, equally feckless alter ego that just won't let go? One that spends his life desperately trying to remember the magic word that will turn him into a God?

Fair hair, dark eyebrows and a red book? Sound familiar? Let me jog your memory:



I for one am worried.

Remember the word, "Abraxas" (/comic geek). It will come in handy if the Chancellor ever remembers his word.

¹Né Marvelman

Abraxas

As a comic book reader of somne years standing, I am rather surprised that I never made the connection before.

Last I recall, Miracleman's¹ alter ego, Mike Moran (a journalist, not the record producer) had left a note to his other self asking to be left in limbo and then uttered his 'magic word' to become Miracleman permanently. It was a form of suicide in that he couldn't cope with being ordinary when there was a supepowered version of himself available. Poignant enough in a four-colour way.

I am a little worried, therefore, to make the following connection. Does Miracleman have another, equally feckless alter ego that just won't let go? One that spends his life desperately trying to remember the magic word that will turn him into a God?

Fair hair, dark eyebrows and a red book? Sound familiar? Let me jog your memory:



I for one am worried.

Remember the word, "Abraxas" (/comic geek). It will come in handy if the Chancellor ever remembers his word.

¹Né Marvelman