Rhododendron: It's a nice flower

Ah, dear Friends, it was a good weekend, but it was a busy weekend and I come out of it more tired than I went in.

Saturday started promisingly with a much-needed lie in. Unfortunately, Furtle realised that she had promised a lemon drizzle cake, so that had to be mixed, baked, cooled and drizzled in the late morning/early afternoon. Our plan then was to slide into the West End, go to the map shop, Stanford’s on Long Acre and try to find some historical maps of London. Time, however seeped away and we couldn’t make it.

Serendipity in the form of thalinoviel came to our rescue by phoning up out of the blue and offering us a lift to Ilford for jfs’s party. We can do Stanford’s another weekend; it’s not going anywhere. Significant birthdays don’t come around every day of the week.

So, to Ilford and initial confusion on finding that the party was being hosted chez westernind and forbinproject. Excellent weather (which I worked my voodoo on and ensured by wearing a heavy leather jacket; I can be hired at reasonable rates). It was very good to reacquaint myself with a number of people I don’t meet often enough these days and meet a number of splendid people for the first time, including members of the Scott clan with whom I could exchange tales of Shropshire.

Back home late, to a plate of unscheduled chips and thence to bed.

Sunday was for chores, mainly shopping, but also the re-potting of two plants: Bilbo, my unexpectedly thriving Madagascan Dragon Tree, and the surviving quarter of Furtle’s ‘thank-you rose’ supplied by our gracious landlords. (Three of the four plants in the pot died horrible deaths. I think the fourth is responsible and it is now thriving). I bought the bolts and Furtle fixed the ice tray – this was her job not because I felt that I couldn’t do it, but I needed Death of Plants to be kept busy while I did the repotting.

And slowly the weekend faded away. We watched Julia McKenzie as Marple in the evening. Entertaining, but I’m not sure what Agatha Christie would have made of the production company parachuting Miss Marple whole sale into the plot of a novel in which she makes no appearance at all, supplanting the true detective, but there we are.

Not the best night’s sleep, but also not the worst and suddenly I’m here, telling you all about it.

Coffee, now. Then I ought to do something productive.

Rhododendron: It's a nice flower

Ah, dear Friends, it was a good weekend, but it was a busy weekend and I come out of it more tired than I went in.

Saturday started promisingly with a much-needed lie in. Unfortunately, Furtle realised that she had promised a lemon drizzle cake, so that had to be mixed, baked, cooled and drizzled in the late morning/early afternoon. Our plan then was to slide into the West End, go to the map shop, Stanford’s on Long Acre and try to find some historical maps of London. Time, however seeped away and we couldn’t make it.

Serendipity in the form of thalinoviel came to our rescue by phoning up out of the blue and offering us a lift to Ilford for jfs’s party. We can do Stanford’s another weekend; it’s not going anywhere. Significant birthdays don’t come around every day of the week.

So, to Ilford and initial confusion on finding that the party was being hosted chez westernind and forbinproject. Excellent weather (which I worked my voodoo on and ensured by wearing a heavy leather jacket; I can be hired at reasonable rates). It was very good to reacquaint myself with a number of people I don’t meet often enough these days and meet a number of splendid people for the first time, including members of the Scott clan with whom I could exchange tales of Shropshire.

Back home late, to a plate of unscheduled chips and thence to bed.

Sunday was for chores, mainly shopping, but also the re-potting of two plants: Bilbo, my unexpectedly thriving Madagascan Dragon Tree, and the surviving quarter of Furtle’s ‘thank-you rose’ supplied by our gracious landlords. (Three of the four plants in the pot died horrible deaths. I think the fourth is responsible and it is now thriving). I bought the bolts and Furtle fixed the ice tray – this was her job not because I felt that I couldn’t do it, but I needed Death of Plants to be kept busy while I did the repotting.

And slowly the weekend faded away. We watched Julia McKenzie as Marple in the evening. Entertaining, but I’m not sure what Agatha Christie would have made of the production company parachuting Miss Marple whole sale into the plot of a novel in which she makes no appearance at all, supplanting the true detective, but there we are.

Not the best night’s sleep, but also not the worst and suddenly I’m here, telling you all about it.

Coffee, now. Then I ought to do something productive.

Nice

I try not to be, but I think many people would say that I am a philistine.

As much as I like other versions of the song, I always come back to the rendition of Mustang Sally from The Commitments. I can’t help it; I like it and I’m listening to it right now.

Nice

I try not to be, but I think many people would say that I am a philistine.

As much as I like other versions of the song, I always come back to the rendition of Mustang Sally from The Commitments. I can’t help it; I like it and I’m listening to it right now.

Exterminate!

Hard though it may be to believe, I think that I am becoming less tolerant as I get older. When I say ‘less tolerant’, I mean in the context of groups of people. I think I am reasonably tolerant of the foibles of (most) people, but get groups of them out in the street, or in shops, well…

Twenty years ago it took something like Oxford Street on a Saturday afternoon to ruin my good mood (albeit temporarily). Now, just walking through Marks and Spencer at lunchtime will do it: trying to get out of a revolving door where yokels in suits wander up to the bit that spits you out and then dodge to one side as if walking up to the entry point is rocket science. These are the same mental giants that ride the escalator and then stop at the top and suddenly switch off, necessitating a shout to get them to move or suffer collision; the same dweebs that stop and talk in the narrowest points of passageways or aisles. These are the plums that stop dead for no reason in a crowded street or shop and then look at you askance because you are not prescient and walk into them. This is the end of the gene pool that thinks eyes are meant to show you where you’ve been as they walk backwards in the assumption that geography and demography will simply resolve around them.

The mobile phone has brought a new level of tedium.

A couple of years ago, Dr Who had a cybermen story in which the cybermen took over people by controlling them through their blue tooth earpieces, via their mobile phones. Well, it’s not science fiction or fantasy: people are controlled by their mobile devices. They can’t walk through or interact with the wider world unless they are talking to someone on their mobile, if not with an earpiece, with their head tilted to one side with the phone jammed to their ear, held in place by their shoulder. Presumably someone is saying, “Walk sideways now. Stop. Walk backward. Drool on your tie. Now pay for something without exchanging the most meagre of pleasantries with the shop assistant. Over there is a crowd of people: collide with them.”

Give me a katana and a flame thrower.

Exterminate!

Hard though it may be to believe, I think that I am becoming less tolerant as I get older. When I say ‘less tolerant’, I mean in the context of groups of people. I think I am reasonably tolerant of the foibles of (most) people, but get groups of them out in the street, or in shops, well…

Twenty years ago it took something like Oxford Street on a Saturday afternoon to ruin my good mood (albeit temporarily). Now, just walking through Marks and Spencer at lunchtime will do it: trying to get out of a revolving door where yokels in suits wander up to the bit that spits you out and then dodge to one side as if walking up to the entry point is rocket science. These are the same mental giants that ride the escalator and then stop at the top and suddenly switch off, necessitating a shout to get them to move or suffer collision; the same dweebs that stop and talk in the narrowest points of passageways or aisles. These are the plums that stop dead for no reason in a crowded street or shop and then look at you askance because you are not prescient and walk into them. This is the end of the gene pool that thinks eyes are meant to show you where you’ve been as they walk backwards in the assumption that geography and demography will simply resolve around them.

The mobile phone has brought a new level of tedium.

A couple of years ago, Dr Who had a cybermen story in which the cybermen took over people by controlling them through their blue tooth earpieces, via their mobile phones. Well, it’s not science fiction or fantasy: people are controlled by their mobile devices. They can’t walk through or interact with the wider world unless they are talking to someone on their mobile, if not with an earpiece, with their head tilted to one side with the phone jammed to their ear, held in place by their shoulder. Presumably someone is saying, “Walk sideways now. Stop. Walk backward. Drool on your tie. Now pay for something without exchanging the most meagre of pleasantries with the shop assistant. Over there is a crowd of people: collide with them.”

Give me a katana and a flame thrower.