Further ramblings of a self-made pauper

I have an ambition. It is a recent ambition and, as ambitions go, rather small.

I would like sometime before the end of the year, to pay a visit to South Cambridgeshire, lair of wallabok, and return from there in roughly the same state I arrived. Last time, dear reader, you recall it was all about claret and facial orifices. This time it's all about my bloody back popping again. Happily, I rarely take any notice of doctors, so I still have the anti-inflammatories left over from last time, and I am happy to say that they are doing the business. But, ooooh, creaaaakkk.

I can't actually remember precisely what I was doing at the time. I know we were outside enjoying a barbeque, and I know that feeding quite impressive amounts of wood into the burner was involved, but at which point my lumbar fell foul of the lumber, I can't recall (it's almost worth the pain to get that pun in).

And what a wood burner it is. I was accused of exaggeration when I pointed out that it consumed anything and everything fed into it, without a reciprocal production of heat. Well, I was vindicated. It did produce heat, and in quite remarkable amounts, but only once it had consumed over half a tree. At one point we managed a plume of ionised gas about 8" high from the flue, and a shower of sparks a good 6' high. Ah, it was marvellous; pure pyrotechnic pleasure. Of course, this mobile garden Vesuvius did produce quite copious amounts of airborne ash, and by daylight it was quite clear that another couple of trees fed into its maw would have turned the village into a latter day Pompeii.

Had we been allowed by the lady of the house to start feeding the garden furniture into the flames I daresay that we would still have been there now.

That's how to spend a Saturday night in summer.

Well. Not the bit about the back. Leave that bit out otherwise, it's all good.

It's just turned midnight and I find that I must iron a shirt for tomorrow. I have learnt from the emergency hotline, that the office will have power tomorrow (indeed it has power now), and that we are all expected to turn up and earn our pittance.

There is, of course, one caveat: the air conditioning will only be operating at about 50% efficiency. Chiz, and indeed, curses. Fatties like me depend upon such amenities in the summer (and let's be frank, they're pretty good in the winter, too). I mean, they took the time out to fix the rest of the circuitry, why not the air conditioning? Are we to work in a mediaeval sweatshop, like some far eastern textile worker? I say, no! Never! To the barricades!

Oh, who am I kidding?

Iron shirt, shave, take shower and go to bed. It's a school night.

Grumble.

(And by the way, I hate the US English spell checker on this thing. If I want to use learn as a hard verb, I bloody well shall, thank you very much).

Well, we've survived 20 years of Seamus O'Timing Device and his boys, and a month of the new wave of unpleasantness,but a faulty circuit has now done what the bombers could not accomplish.

It seems that there was a power surge in Eland House sometime early this morning, which caused a short out in the basement transformer room, and then a fire. So, no power in the building, and no work. Maybe none tomorrow, either, depending upon the damage. I'll know later on, when I phone the information line.

The irony is that I got into Victoria a little earlier than usual, because I have a lot of stuff stacking up to be done. Instead though, four of us decamped to the Costa Coffee in Victoria Station, supped a latté and came home.

Unexpected free time! Hurrah! If only I'd known before I set out this morning... still, mustn't grumble.