tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-41682839755061505022024-03-13T22:58:38.874-07:00It's not me, it's them! Random musings of an elderly bookseller.uncle philhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04870655412069180206noreply@blogger.comBlogger41125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4168283975506150502.post-26338271527598414722017-06-10T03:08:00.000-07:002017-06-10T03:23:15.520-07:00File me under “Philosaurus”.<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large; line-height: 115%;">Suddenly, I
feel very ancient. I spent time this evening
being shown the finer points of a computer game on an I-Pad. My mentor was one
of my great-grandsons, Harry.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: large;"> He is two years old.</span><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
uncle philhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04870655412069180206noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4168283975506150502.post-90745183277622002642017-06-04T03:34:00.005-07:002017-06-04T03:34:50.697-07:00<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Old Men Forget<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I’ve always been chronically absent-minded. There’s usually so much going on
in my head that great wodges of it get spiked on the mental ‘pending’ file – out of reach of the instant
recall mechanism. I tend to forget stuff.
So sue me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Susie, who is to pessimism what Michelangelo was to painting
ceilings, and habitually sees everything
going on around her in the light of a hypothetical worst-case situation, is
convinced that I’m sliding pell-mell into senile dementia. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">But the good news is that I’m not going batty. How do I know that? Because my GP, the
admirable Dr Williams, told me so. She took me through the standard NHS Are-You-Turning-Into-A-Gaga-Old-Fart
Test yesterday, (and I bet you didn’t know there was one) which I passed with
flying (if slightly tattered) colours. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">However, in this instance I can understand Susie’s concern. When I went to see the doc some weeks ago for
a general health check, she suggested we make an appointment to do the test
aforementioned. Just in case. So we agreed a date and time, which she wrote
down on a piece of paper for me, and when I got home I entered the details into
the computer which rules my life, and told it to remind me a few days before
the due date. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Which it duly did. But there was one small problem. Could I
remember why I was going to see her? Could I buggery. Complete blank. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> “Suse” I said “Why am I going to see the doctor on
Wednesday? I can’t for the life of me remember.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“That’s exactly why! Because your memory’s shot” (the word “dickhead”, though unspoken, hung
in the air.)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Unusually for me, I had no answer to that. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
uncle philhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04870655412069180206noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4168283975506150502.post-28536287424115564862017-02-19T03:24:00.002-08:002017-02-19T03:26:45.765-08:00Should have gone to Specsavers?<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">So – I’m Idly
looking through the magazine shelves in Asda while waiting for Susie to put her
lottery on (a triumph of hope over experience, but never mind) when an
interesting looking title caught my eye along at the far end of the rack. Great – I thought - a new humorous mag in the Private Eye or Viz genre</span>. <span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">So I walked over to have a closer look, only to find
that it was about sitting on a river
bank catching bloody fish<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The title –
Total Carp. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
uncle philhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04870655412069180206noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4168283975506150502.post-65047727910608480872014-09-23T05:06:00.001-07:002014-09-23T05:09:43.656-07:00From our Travel Corresondent<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="background: #F6F7F8; color: #141823; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;"><br /></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="background: #F6F7F8; color: #141823; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;"><br /></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b><span style="background: #F6F7F8; color: #141823; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">Coventry
named as top holiday destination</span></b><span style="background: #F6F7F8; color: #141823; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;"> </span></span></div>
<h4 style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: #f6f7f8; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; color: #141823;">(headline in today’s Coventry
Telegraph)</span></span></h4>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="background: #F6F7F8; color: #141823; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: #f6f7f8; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial;">Ahhh - Yesss! I've spent many a happy ten minutes soaking up the sun in the trendy, fun-filled Costa
del Walsgrave, feasting on the local delicacy, the quaintly named Pork Batches,
and taking selfies of me and mine with the statue of the Local Celebrity, </span>(an
eleventh century upper-class poll tax protester with a penchant for getting her
kit off<span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: #f6f7f8; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial;">) and wandering awestruck through Coventry's shining example of 20th century architectural and artistic
excellence known as the new Cathedral, aptly dedicated to St Michael, the
patron saint of undergarments.</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="background: rgb(246, 247, 248);"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="background: rgb(246, 247, 248);"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Then we can recommend the celebrated Tour of the Ruins – both
those which Goering destroyed (the old Cathedral) and those which the Council
Planning Department destroyed (the rest of the city centre.)<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="background: rgb(246, 247, 248);"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The shopping experience is breathtaking. Visit the exotic Stoney Stanton Road. Here,
you can easily buy as many saris, burqas
, jellabas, any other exotic clothing you might happen to need., a range of
Oriental sweetmeats guaranteed to pile the pounds on, and blingy gold and jewellery by the hundredweight,
guaranteed to get you mugged the moment you go out wearing it. Meanwhile the
kids can have hours of fun playing Spot the White Man.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">If you crave a bit of excitement, you can try a circuit of the
Ring Road. A 10-15 minute thrill-packed ride, ending up back where you started.
Or in A and E. Or possibly somewhere more permanent. You don’t get that kind of buzz at Alton
Towers. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">All in all, Cov is up there with the coolest holiday resorts
in the country. Grimsby, Barnsley, Accrington,
immediately spring to mind.. So next
time you want a break you’ll never forget, remember our slogan. Don’t Book it – Fook it!</span><o:p></o:p><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
uncle philhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04870655412069180206noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4168283975506150502.post-3778165080200455092014-09-06T06:43:00.001-07:002014-09-06T06:43:19.504-07:00Ooooops!<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">O what tricks the ancient mind doth play!<span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="color: #141823;"> </span></span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I was rabbiting on to somebody about the Middle East situation, noting that
there are two main Muslim sects. (and yes I do know there are others!)<span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="color: #141823;"> <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So far, so good…………<span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="color: #141823;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“They're called Sunni and Sushi “ - quoth Uncle Phil the fount of all knowledge<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Sushi?????</span><o:p></o:p></div>
uncle philhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04870655412069180206noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4168283975506150502.post-35144949786608788992014-07-17T02:43:00.001-07:002014-07-17T02:43:04.596-07:00Through a Glass, Darkly<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I’m more than a bit worried about me, lately, in that my
chronic absent-mindedness is beginning to morph into full blown senility.
Doddering and incontinence are now only just over the horizon, I fear.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Take yesterday morning for instance. I was proceeding along
the road outside of the garden centre, on autopilot, head-in-the-clouds as
usual. Realised suddenly that I needed
to chuck a right to go into the car
park. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Having established that there was nothing lethal coming towards me, I went
to check for traffic coming up behind.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So I glanced into my offside wing mirror, as you do. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">At which point reality kicked in, and I realised that I
wasn’t actually in the car, but pushing a mirrorless trolley full of pots of Dahlias.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">(Now there’s an idea for you, Tesco. Fit your trollies with
wing mirrors. Every little helps !)</span><o:p></o:p></div>
uncle philhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04870655412069180206noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4168283975506150502.post-68962920070669167782014-04-21T02:49:00.000-07:002014-04-21T02:59:47.087-07:00Gardener’s World<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
I was cataloguing some books this
morning. This in itself is hardly hot news - I spend half my life feeding in ISBNs
and describing every minor blemish to dustwrappers in excruciating detail. The
latter mainly as a cover-my-arse stratagem for customers who can’t be bothered
to read descriptions properly, and try to send books back on almost any pretext,
and worse, give me crap feedback. (The most consistent sinners in this regard come
almost invariably via Amazon, for some reason. ) <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
But that’s an anecdote for
another time, perhaps. <i>Revenons aux
jardins.</i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
Some way down the tottering pile
I came across a book on roses* (Staple-bound card covers, in As New condition,
64pp including index, in case you care.)
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
Now as it happens we are just
re-designing our garden. I say ‘we’ but in truth I have little to contribute as
far as detail goes – if pushed I‘d probably make a right prat of myself by
confusing Pelargoniums with Pergolas, or Ena Harkness with Ena Sharples. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
The family conversation has tended
lately to veer towards the Titchmarsh end of the spectrum at almost every opportunity. It’s been
Begonias for breakfast, Lobelias for lunch and Dahlias for dinner, <i>chez</i> Phil. And it’s not just about plants – the minutiae
of such fascinating constructional necessities as paving slabs and fence posts,
decking boards and half-log rails, sheds and skips, are a constant theme. I can
only pray that ‘Capability’ James (Mrs) doesn’t get ideas about a water feature – or ‘Incapacitated’ James (Mr) will have to permanently
live in the loo!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
Anyway – there was talk of replacing
some of our rose bushes, because the current crop had gone well triffidy since
last summer and were not only maliciously trying to ensnare the dog every time
she went anywhere near them, but they were going to be in the way of the proposed
new fencing. And guess who was given the
job of getting rid of the redundant ramblers,
leaving him with a back out of kilter and thorns in his hands and arms that are still painfully surfacing
a fortnight later. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
So as I picked up the book I
thought “I’ll have a quick shufti –
maybe I can mug up a quick Bluffer’s
Guide.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
A substantial section of the book
is given over to listing all the various varieties of Tea roses, Floribunda,
Climbers, and so on , each with a short description of its good and bad points.
Gripping stuff.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
Until about half way through I
came across this example:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
ANGELA RIPPON: Popular for bedding and exhibiting………..<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
At which point all ambitions
towards horticultural understanding went out the window,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
In yer dreams, James!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-size: 10.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">*Rose
Jotter, by Dr D G Hessayon- £4.95 from any good bookseller, or £2.50 from Uncle Phil’s Books. (including p&p,
natch.)<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
uncle philhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04870655412069180206noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4168283975506150502.post-55546775657151541922014-04-09T00:26:00.001-07:002014-04-09T00:26:55.796-07:00<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Snakes and Ladders<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<b><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><br /></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
It’s been a funny sort of week. A week of highs and lows. Mostly lows. My knee
and ankle joints have been playing up, and what with the chronic back trouble,
some mornings I’ve hardly been able to walk. Or, and it’s been a big Or, do
stairs. Up or down. But I suppose this
is all part of getting on a bit, so I shouldn’t complain. The alternative is,
after all, worse. Nevertheless, boxes of books seem to be
getting heavier by the week, lately. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
It would appear though, that I’m
not the only thing <i>chez</i> Uncle Phil that’s
approaching its sell-by date. We drove to the bank on Wednesday morning, me to
pay some cheques in, Herself to pick up her new goggles from the Specsavers
next door. Did all that – got back in
the car. Went to start the engine, put
foot on clutch as I always do, in case I’ve left the car in gear. Clutch pedal
goes straight down to the metal - and stays there. I could move it up and down with my foot, but
it didn’t seem to be connected to anything. Least of all, the gearbox. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
To cut a long sad story short the
RAC, may they live long and prosper, arrived within about 20 minutes, towed us
to the garage of my choice, and then their driver, a very <i>very </i>nice man, gave us a lift home. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
An hour or so later, the garage
rang, to explain exactly what had happened, and what would be needed to fix it.
Six hundred and fifty sovs later, I put the phone down and nearly brought my
breakfast up. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
But later, I did have one small bit of good luck. I’d bought a crate of assorted books in an
auction. Actually this is a slight
whatever the opposite of exaggeration is – meiosis? litotes? Can’t remember. Go
to the bottom of the class, young Philip. I’d in fact bought 18 crates of assorted
books. Which for those of you who generally think of books in terms of
one-at-a-time, or have fallen for the e-books sales pitch, is a couple of
people-carriers full,- or the best part of a ton. I ’m thinking of applying for lifting crates
of books around to become an Olympic sport. I’d win Gold every time. And it’s cheaper than
joining the gym. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
Anyway – I was going through this
particular boxful, and I noticed a bit of metal sticking out of the top edge of
one of the books. So I pulled it out, to find a nice antique hallmarked solid
silver letter opener. Which when I sell it will pay for the whole eighteen
cratesful. Not bad, for a bookmark.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
People use some odd things as
bookmarks. Probably they grab at whatever’s near to hand. We’ve had over the years (apart from the usual ephemera)
a £20 note (useful) an uncashed cheque for over £1000 dated 1950-something
(useless) a 100 fr Swiss banknote (out
of date) a Romeo y Julieta (flattened) flowers various (pressed), a hairnet (in
holes) a pornographic photograph (kinky) and a slice of streaky bacon (cooked.)
This last book we had to dump. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
(<i>Later</i>…..) It seems to be my week for precious metals. In another
box (same consignment) I found a little book published by the Metropolitan
Museum of Art in New York, called Gifts of the Magi: Gold, Frankincense and
Myrrh, complete and in a slipcase, with
samples of the three gifts, to wit 2 muslin bags containing , in crystalline
form, the Sacred Smellies (but please don’t ask me which is which!) and a small
corked bottle of spirit containing some flakes of 24 carat gold. Or so it says
on the label, and I can’t see the Met telling porkies. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
What will I find next, I wonder. A Georgian silver teaset? A Faberge Egg? A Rembrandt etching? ( I once did find one of those – in a £15
auction lot , not of books, but of pictures.
How much did I get for it? Quite a lot, actually. <o:p></o:p></div>
uncle philhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04870655412069180206noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4168283975506150502.post-5189578521570663772014-03-29T08:36:00.005-07:002014-03-29T08:36:51.584-07:00<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<b><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Nought’s Had: All’s Spent<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
On almost a daily basis, our doormat takes delivery of some glossy
colour catalogue or other, distributed
by companies with names like EezyKlene,
or Bettastuff, or Happikrapp. Followed
in short order by their local representatives
expecting orders from said
catalogues. Our current serial
doorbell-ringer is a chap of West Indian extraction, who is a self-confessed
bookworm, hence high in my estimation, and one of the most pleasant and
cheerful men I’ve ever met. I love him to bits. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
Nevertheless, I rather wish I hadn’t met him. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
For two reasons. One is that the
products these folks try to flog you all have one thing in common; in that on
first glance they look amazingly useful in the catalogue, but they read far better
than they live; in reality they don’t quite manage to solve problems which before
they jumped out at you from the brochure you didn’t actually know you had. The second is that my Susie is a sucker for
all this unnecessary gadgetry, and manages to find something in every issue that we can’t possibly do
without, albeit my personal view is that if I’ve managed without these gewgaws for
the last three-quarters of a century I can comfortably cope without them for however
long I’ve got left. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
Her latest ‘investment’ is a
little metal filter thingy that drops into the plughole in the bathroom sink. Ideal, you’d have thought. Clever. Keeps all
the hairs and other detritus from blocking up the U-bend. Three quid well
spent. (Not that the U-bend has ever blocked itself in the eleven years I’ve
known it, but never mind.)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
But sadly, in practice it doesn’t
quite work like that. Because what happens is that the holes in the filter are
so small that the water doesn’t do its usual gurgle-gurgle-gone act, but filters through so slowly that such personal
unwanteds as shaving stubble and expectorated toothpaste stay plastered all
over the inside of the basin, so that you then have to dig the bloody filter
out so as to swill and wipe the basin clean, instead of just running the cold
tap full blast, swishing it around with a hand, and letting the drain take the
strain. Not only that, if you do leave the tap running, the sink overflows. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
Which rather defeats the object, I’d have
thought. The whole <i>raison d’etre</i> for
these companies, they’d have you think,
is to make your life easier. But most of
the time they merely serve to complicate some minor task or other that you’ve
been doing on autopilot and with a minimum of trouble all your life <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<b><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Everybody’s a Comedian<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
Went for my usual yearly checkup
at Specsavers today. Was told I have a
cataract on my right eye, which needs operating on. Now I hate the thought of anybody mucking
about with my eyes, so I asked “What happens if I don’t have it done? “ “ Well”
– said the Specsavers lady – “we do a nice line in guide dogs!” <o:p></o:p></div>
uncle philhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04870655412069180206noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4168283975506150502.post-11591956615273694502012-06-06T23:45:00.000-07:002012-06-06T23:45:00.920-07:00Fashion notes – Derby Day<span style="font-family: Calibri;">My Susie has over the years
developed <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>a somewhat jaundiced attitude
to anything she considers ‘posh’ , or that smacks of the rich and/or the upper
classes having a good time. This dismissive outlook <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>is fairly predictable, can be vaguely annoying
on occasion, but is more often than not <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>highly amusing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>However, <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>the other day, she excelled herself. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">We were watching the Derby Day
programme on the BBC. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As you do. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>HM the Q and the Royal Party had driven down
the course under grey, moody skies, <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>and
ensconced themselves in the Royal Box.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Katherine Jenkins had belted out the National Anthem, sporting a frock
so low cut that the only thing that appeared to hold it up was the effect of
the cold weather on the focal points of her abundant natural assets. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And so the racing was due to start. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Cue<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>the
BBC commentary team, headed by the redoubtable Claire Balding, dressed to the
nines for the occasion, and <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>with an
elegant,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>wide-brimmed, feather-trimmed
creation atop.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Cor”, I<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>said. “Isn’t Claire’s hat smashing.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“”Humph!” said Susie, unimpressed
as ever. “Looks like she’s just head-butted a pheasant!”<o:p></o:p></span><br />uncle philhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04870655412069180206noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4168283975506150502.post-69598306123058377272012-04-17T06:06:00.005-07:002012-04-17T06:17:46.574-07:00What's in a name?<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">My attention, never exactly up to speed until I’ve had a
couple of intravenous morning coffees, was grabbed<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>by this headline on the BBC website. It read:<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;">"Major Parkinson’s Study Launched”</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">Which prompted visions of the old chap’s comfortable nicotine-tinged
den, complete with worn brown leather armchairs, open smoke-blackened
fireplace, walls covered with prints of past military glories and ancient
yellowing photographs of the young officer and his colleagues, being taken
apart, re-assembled inside a hermetically sealed <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>capsule and being hurled into space, for the
edification of any non-terrestrial life-forms that might come across it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">“But why”, I thought. So I clicked on the link, only to find
that the story referred not to the inter-stellar journey of a hitherto unknown
and unsung army man’s habitat, but to a research project initiated by a Glasgow
doctor into the causes of<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>and cure for
Parkinson’s disease. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">Worthy indeed, but compared to how I’d read<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>the headline,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>how boring. What a let-down.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">Don’t they have sub-editors any more?<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>uncle philhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04870655412069180206noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4168283975506150502.post-85218632246447030572012-03-30T03:59:00.005-07:002012-03-30T04:34:13.519-07:00The food of sweet and bitter fancy<div align="justify"><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">“Let’s take Kaz out for a pub </span><span style="font-family:arial;">lunch, while we’re at it” she said. “The weather looks like it’s going to be lovely, and it’ll make a nice change………….”</span></span></div><span style="font-family:arial;"><div align="justify"><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">“While we’re at what?” you might ask. </span></div><div align="justify"><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">We were planning to go up-country to open up our weekend retreat after the winter, and Granddaughter Karen was coming with us to lend a hand, since Susie is still in disabled mode after her accident. (v. “ Break a Leg” supra )</span></div><div align="justify"><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Sharon (Susie’s number two daughter) had recently told us in fairly glowing terms about a picturesque little country watering hole just off the main Worcester road that she, husband Mark and the boys had been to for lunch. “OK Suse”, I said, “ Let’s try that one out – I’ll give ‘em a ring and book – they’re bound to be busy Sunday lunchtime.” Whilst checking for details online, I took a look at some of their menus, and the food looked pretty good, if a tad expensive. No matter – we don’t treat ourselves to a meal out very often. Mainly because at the kind of gastronomic and financial level within our reach, I can usually cook better than they can. </span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-size:130%;"> </span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-size:130%;">Sunday dawned into a beautiful sunny day – you don’t often get temperatures in the 70s in mid March – and the drive down was a delight, once we’d got Susie’s leg (which has impacted on our lives to the extent that it has taken on a malevolent persona of its own) into the car.</span></div><div align="justify"><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">So we did the business with the caravan, caught up on all the local goss with the neighbours, manoeuvred The Leg back into the car, closely followed by Susie, her walking frame and a pair of crutches “just in case”, and at about 2 o’clock set out for lunch.</span></div><div align="justify"><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">The directions on the website looked simple enough – and proclaimed that we’d see a large sign on the RHS of the main road, at which point we should turn right onto an unpaved lane, and we’d find the pub about 400 yards on the right. They even showed a picture of said sign on the website. Easy-peasy, especially as I’d seen it before, and knew roughly where it was, anyway.</span></div><div align="justify"><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">Or I thought I did. We went through the “It can’t be much further – try round the next bend” routine without seeing the promised sign, until we were half way to bloody Worcester. (And why is it that when you’re looking to turn right, but aren’t entirely sure where, you invariably get some idiot driving right up your arse?) Anyway – I decided that we must have passed the turning, and so as soon as we safely could we hung a 180 and retraced our steps. It wasn’t until we got back to roughly where I thought the pub was in the first place that we saw a large empty metal frame from which the alleged sign used to hang, and a small a4 size notice with <-- PUB inscribed on it. Thanks, guys.</span></div><div align="justify"><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">So we did a left onto what turned out to be a very bumpy cart track. Which normally wouldn’t have mattered, except that since The Leg entered our lives the first thing that Susie says when we get into the car is “Please be careful going over any bumps” to which protuberances The Leg (not unreasonably) objects, bigtime. </span></div><div align="justify"><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">So after about a quarter of a mile of anguished groans and unladylike language, we arrived. To find that the only way into the premises was along a cobbled path about 40 feet in length. Now – I don’t suppose you’ve tried to hobble on one foot with a walking frame along an uphill cobblestone path without putting any weight on the other leg – no, neither have I, but I guess that as an experience it ranges from well tricky to dead painful. Both at once, probably. To her credit, Susie managed it, but by the time she reached the pub garden fifteen minutes later she’d had enough. So we sat her down at a table kindly vacated by a young couple who had watched her epic struggle, and I went inside to sort out food and drinks. I told them that we’d booked a table in the restaurant, explained that there was no way Susie was going to make it that far, and why, and could we eat outside?</span></div><div align="justify"><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">“No problem”, they said. “let me know what drinks you want, and I’ll bring them out and explain the menu to you.” I vaguely wondered what she meant – I’m pretty good at menus by now, in a variety of languages, even including rural English, and I don’t normally need them explained. But I was soon to find out.</span></div><div align="justify"><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">The main event on the menu was Sunday Roast Lunch. Fine - we agreed – we’ll have that. “But I must tell you” quoth the waitress, looking somewhat embarrassed, and no wonder – “We’ve been very busy today - the Roast Beef is finished, as is the Roast Pork, the Roast Lamb and the Roast Chicken” </span></div><div align="justify"><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">As Kaz remarked later – it takes real talent to advertise a Sunday Roast and to have completely run out of the main ingredient. The RSC offering up Hamlet but without the Prince springs to mind.</span></div><div align="justify"><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">“Doesn’t leave a lot”, I pointed out. “What’s left?”</span></div><div align="justify"><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">“ The Salmon’s nice – or the chef can do you a fillet steak with the rest of the Sunday Roast trimmings. Or there’s a Vegetarian Bake.” </span></div><div align="justify"><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">( I ask you – do I look like a Vegetarian Bake kinda guy? )</span></div><div align="justify"><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">So Kaz and I plumped for the fillet steak, and Suse went for the salmon. We sipped our drinks, and waited for the food to arrive. Thirty five minutes later, we were still waiting.</span></div><div align="justify"><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">When it finally arrived, Susie’s salmon looked passable, and was fairly substantial, but whereas Kaz and I were expecting a decent lump of filet each, what we were presented with was three wafer-thin slices cooked in gravy. Plus a selection of (cold-ish) vegetables. All this at a tenner a plateful.</span></div><div align="justify"><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">We were going to have puddings, but the consensus was “cobblers to this” so I went in to pay the bill (nearly 40 sovs for three insubstantial one-course meals, a coke, an orange juice and a pint of cooking bitter) and three disappointed and still hungry diners and A Leg did the reverse cobblestones and cart track bit, and finally headed for home. Where I rustled up sausages, bacon, egg and chips for an early supper. Luvverly!</span></div><div align="justify"><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">So, when I saw Sharon on the Monday, I suggested that if she had any ambitions to be a restaurant critic, she maybe shouldn’t give up the day job right away. “But it’s a lovely pretty pub,” she said. Which it was – a little old thatched building that looked like it had grown there. She meant well, bless her, and It would have been churlish to point out that I don’t by and large go to pubs for the architecture. Especially Sunday lunchtime.<br /></span></div></span><span style="font-family:arial;"></span>uncle philhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04870655412069180206noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4168283975506150502.post-79967104844654913152012-02-07T06:10:00.000-08:002012-02-07T06:52:18.902-08:00Break a Leg!<div align="justify"><br /><span><span><span style="font-family:verdana;">Let me start with a riddle:<br /><br />What goes bump bump curse crash clatter scream curse screech? Only with about ten times more Anglo-Saxon, and considerably louder.<br /><br />No? OK - I’ll tell you. It’s a Susie falling downstairs carrying a tray full of crockery, that’s what.<br /><br />Which might have been funny, at least in hindsight, especially taking into account Susie’s robust banana-skin sense of humour. Some years ago she saw a blind man walk straight into a lamp-post, and has been laughing at the poor sod ever since.</span></span></span></div><div align="justify"><span><span><span style="font-family:verdana;"></span></span></span> </div><div align="justify"><span><span><span style="font-family:verdana;">That’ll teach ‘er. </span></span></span></div><div align="justify"> </div><div align="justify"><span><span><span style="font-family:verdana;">Except that this time it wasn’t even vaguely amusing. My poor Susie had broken her right leg in two places, and was in considerable pain. But we didn’t know all that at the time. I picked her up from the stairwell, sat her down in the kitchen, and one of the Granddaughters, hastily summoned from the next street, bound up her leg. “It’s only a sprain” said Suse, when urged to let us phone for an ambulance. “It’ll be fine in the morning. And I can’t fancy sitting in Casualty for four hours.”<br /><br />But it was far from fine in </span></span></span><span><span><span style="font-family:verdana;">the morning. And even further from fine the following morning. So after her spending two days in agony, we finally managed to persuade her that A&E was the only way to go.<br /><br />In fact, it didn’t take anything like the four hours advertised. We were swept along the conveyor belt (read ‘wheelchair’- motive power yours truly - and </span></span></span><span><span><span style="font-family:verdana;">why are hospital wheelchairs even more bloody-minded than supermarket trolleys?) from Triage Nurse to Doctor to X-Ray to Doctor again, to Plaster Room, and back to Doctor, with a short wait in between each, except for an hour when the entire NHS buggered off for lunch at the same time.<br /><br />The X-rays were spectacular. An ankle bone cracked and displaced, and an impressive greenstick fracture of the fibula. Pins and plates and screws were mooted, so they put the errant limb in a temporary plaster cast, made us an appointment with the Fracture Clinic for the next morning, doled out the standard NHS crutches,and sent us home. Getting Suse (or rather her plastered leg) into the car was an interesting challenge, but we made it, just. And It took two of us to lift her up the three steps to the front door, which everybody but her thought was a hoot. Especially when her skirt descended round her ankles, much to the amusement of the two youngest Grandchildren, who were standing in the hallway watching.<br /><br />To cut a long story short, we were at the hospital most of the next day, a lot of it spent doing the statutory paperwork, and being processed by, and by definition, waiting at, just about every department in the placeexcept for ENT, Infectious Diseases, and Gynaecology. Finally, her operation was scheduled for the following Friday morning. So back to the car and front stairs routine, except that this time the clothing behaved itself.<br /><br />Susie’s now home and (hopefully) recuperating.<br /><br />But what a couple of days! We got up at 5am </span></span></span><span><span><span style="font-family:verdana;">on the Friday so as to arrive at the Hospital at 6-45 (they said 7-30 for a morning op, but I wanted to be able to find a space in the woefully inadequate car park before the ravening hordes tipped up) and we went up to the ward. More paperwork. And then we sat and waited. And waited. And waited. Suse wasn’t allowed to eat or drink anything, which didn’t improve her temper any, but by about 10 o’clock her long-suffering husband was starving.<br /><br />Of course, this being a brand new state-of-the-art NHS hospital, there isn’t even a coffee machine at ward level, let alone somewhere selling edibles – I had to go down five floors to the ground floor, where there’s a Costa. Which is very aptly named, I reckon. I lashed out the equivalent of a banker’s bonus on a double espresso the size of a large thimble – thank heavens I hadn’t ordered a single – I’d left my microscope in my other trousers - and a couple of underweight and slightly undercooked pecan Danish.</span></span></span></div><div align="justify"><span><span><span style="font-family:verdana;"></span></span></span> </div><div align="justify"><span><span><span style="font-family:verdana;">Then I went back up the five floors to Suse. And we waited, And waited. And – well no doubt you have the picture by now.<br /><br />Finally @ about 3-30 they took her down to Theatre for what they said would be about an hour’s op. So I sat and waited. And waited. And………<br /><br />………..by about 6-30 I was going a bit frantic. She hadn’t arrived back from Theatre, and nobody knew where she was – they said that due to a bed shortage she probably wouldn’t be going back to the ward we started off in, and in whose aptly named Waiting Room I still was, but somebody would eventually let me know where she’d ended up. If I didn’t mind – er - waiting. “ Mind?” I said. “Why should I mind?“ I am to waiting what Michelangelo was to painting ceilings.”<br /><br />Anyway – we were finally re-united at about 7-30pm (visiting time finishes at 8, of course, but I stretched the envelope a bit, ) and at about 9pm I went down to ground level, took out a mortgage to pay the car park charge, and drove home. To a supper of mixed leftovers – I just couldn’t be arsed to cook anything.<br /><br />And so to bed.<br /><br />On the Saturday, visiting was from 2pm, and prior to that they had told Suse she could go home that afternoon, so I watched the Man U – Liverpool match, (one has to get one’s priorities right, after all) and got there about 3. They told us that they’d ordered her various drugs from the Pharmacy, and as soon as they arrived we could go. So we waited………………………..etcetera. And finally left for home at about 6.<br /><br />All in all she’s going to be fine, thank heavens. A bit sore, of course, given a leg full of freshly implanted ironmongery, and a bit woozy, given a bloodstream full of anaesthetic and industrial strength Paracetamol. But she (and by extension I) had a good night’s sleep, for a change. However she’ll be out of action for 6 weeks at least, and at the moment isn’t allowed to put any weight on the injured leg, which makes even a trip to the loo a major expedition.<br /><br />I must say – other than that one sometimes gets the impression that the left hand knoweth not what the right hand doth, all the hospital personnel were brilliant. From the most junior student nurse (thanks, Emma) to the Great Panjandrum, Mr Senior Consultant himself, they were kind, caring, professional and competent.<br /><br />Nevertheless – I might suggest a new motto for Coventry University Hospital:<br /><br />“They also serve who only sit and wait!”<br /><br />(Which, no doubt, is why we’re called “patients”)<br /></span></span></span></div><span><span><span style="font-family:verdana;"></span></span></span>uncle philhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04870655412069180206noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4168283975506150502.post-45932554854782103052012-01-15T06:15:00.000-08:002012-02-07T06:01:24.196-08:00I got mail<div align="justify"><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">My Inbox is a source of never-ending wonder and delight. I get dozens of emails every day, offering me</span><span style="font-family:arial;">all sorts of weird and wonderful nostrums guaranteed to cure any disease I might fall foul of; massively advantageous financial deals involving no effort on my part other than clicking on a link, and mentioning figures with lots of noughts and commas; tax refunds from an uncharacteristically generous HMRC. (plus one yesterday from the Australian Tax Office, which is odd – as far as I know I’ve never paid any tax in Oz, or had reason to) ; urgent security warnings from banks I don’t have an account with; plaintive begging letters from most of </span><span style="font-family:arial;">the population of Africa, half of them yukkingly obsequious, and the other half trying to lay a guilt trip on me, Godwise; means and methods of increasing the length and girth of my <em>membrum virile</em>( If I partook of all of them and they worked like they say they do, it would grow enough to stretch from here to Wolverhampton, although why it should want to escapes me;) etcetera, etcetera and so on.</span></div><span style="font-family:arial;"><div align="justify"><br />I rarely bother to read the entire missives– the headers alone can keep me amused all day. Although why some of these folks should assume that I’m fluent in both Hebrew and Japanese is another mystery. I can’t help wondering what I’m missing, due to my shameful lack of language skills.</div><div align="justify"><br />I did once receive a stray email, offering me a chance to win laser surgery on my eye. This I did read, because it interested me - I find I’m never wearing the right glasses for whatever I’m trying to do (or if I’m wearing the right specs I’m probably doing the wrong thing.) This communication arrived some time ago, and I’ve been waiting ever since for another so as to cover the other eye as well, but thus far, in vain. So it looks like I’m either going to have to pass, and carry on with the spectacles, or wear a monocle. Life can be a tiresome, sometimes. </div><div align="justify"><br />And then there’s some I simply just don’t understand. For instance, I received one this morning, intriguingly entitled ”Ramp Up Your Mojo – Now!!!!”. But I have no idea what a Mojo is; I can only suppose that it’s some kind of motor vehicle – a sort of four wheeled moped, perhaps, and for some reason unspecified they want me to drive it up onto a ramp, presumably to inspect the underneath. This does present a few logistic and engineering challenges, in that (a) I ‘m not as yet the proud owner of one of the conveyances aforesaid, and thus might fail them in the Now!!! department, (b) I don’t have a ramp – I’d have to take the damned thing down to the garage and wait for bloody hours until they had one free, and (c) in any case I don’t have the slightest idea of what it is I’m supposed to be looking for.</div><div align="justify"><br />Regardless, their solution to whatever problem arises appears to be the purchase ( at considerable expense, I might add) of some of their special pills. But they don’t tell me what I’m<br />supposed to do with these – should I add one to the petrol tank, perhaps, every time I fill up, like that stuff – what was it called? – Redex, that’s it – that my father used to put in the Bentley’s tank with the petrol. He said it prolonged engine life. Although why he bothered, I’ll never know – the average Bentley engine, even sans benefit of Redex, would have outlasted him, me, my children and grandchildren, and yea, even unto the next generation or three. But I digress. Maybe they want me to bung one of their pills into the radiator occasionally, like antifreeze. It’s about the same colour – a fetching shade of blue.</div><div align="justify"><br />(………..later) I’ve Googled and Froogled, Yahooed and Yelled, tried every search engine, business directory and vehicle listing service I can think of, but I can’t find a Mojo dealership anywhere. I can’t even find a secondhand example - even those folks with the annoying advert boasting that They Buy Any Car don’t have a Mojo in stock. I’m sorry, folks, I’ve tried my best for you, but I’m afraid that in this instance, on me you shouldn’t rely.</div><div align="justify"><br />Another new arrival – headed “are you the victim of an accident? “ Bloody cheek! While it’s really none of their business, I feel like pointing out that my mother was a Nice Girl, and in those far distant days Nice Girls didn’t have ‘accidents’. I was both planned and born in wedlock, if you please. (I love that phrase. Wedlock always sounds to me like it ought to be a small market town in Shropshire, or maybe Derbyshire.)</div><div align="justify"><br />Just lately, I’ve been getting some interesting stuff, mainly from Russia and China, offering me all kinds of heavy industrial products and processes. I had one this morning, trying to flog me naval vessels and tugboats (the design, construction and project management thereof.) Why they think these should interest a dealer in secondhand books I have no idea. “I’d like to order two destroyers, a frigate, a small nuclear sub, and an aircraft carrier, if you please. If you could throw in a couple of tugboats and a copy of Lady Chatterley’s Lover (the unexpurgated Paris edition, naturlich) as a trade discount, we can do a deal” I suppose at a pinch I could list them on Amazon or E-bay, but I’d have thought that the postage costs from China would be prohibitive. And Amazon only allow their sellers £2.80 for postage, which I doubt would cover delivery to the customer if I sold them. Besides, they’d be buggers to wrap. I doubt Jiffy do a big enough bag, for starters.</div><div align="justify"><br />And so it goes on. Today’s batch so far contains an offer for me to join a “Futures Trading Seminar”, a catalogue of wooden houses, an “Administrative Job Offer in Australia” (hence, presumably, the email from the Oz Tax Office), a Chinese one headed “Printing of the Secret Weapon Here” ( being mightier than the sword, perhaps) and one trying to sell fake diplomas and degrees “that you don’t have to work four” (sic). I get plenty of these, but this one stood out, somehow. Firstly because whoever wrote it had probably heard of English Spelling and Grammar, but had obviously never seen it used in practice, but more specifically for the name of the sender, (and I promise I’m not making this up ) a Mr Terrence Ponce”</div><div align="justify"> </div><div align="justify">Nuff said……….!!</div></span><div align="justify"></div>uncle philhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04870655412069180206noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4168283975506150502.post-45206151426892966752011-07-21T15:06:00.000-07:002011-07-21T15:15:18.798-07:00Sutton’s Law - not*<div><div><div align="justify"><br />We’d gone down to our little place in the country for the weekend, as we usually do during the summer. On the Saturday morning I motored the five miles or so into Bromyard to do some shopping. I needed to visit the ironmongers, and whilst there reckoned to extract some readies from the hole-in-the-wall at the local HSBC next door but one.<br /><br />Bromyard, for a small country town, is well provided with ironmongers, having a pair of them, (or would a brace be more apt? ) both very much of the old-fashioned persuasion, that sell – no, they don’t – they purvey - just about everything you ‘d pay far more for at B&Q, let alone hundreds of useful things that that bean-counter run emporium can’t be bothered to stock any more. (Think “Fork ‘andles” but far more chaotic.) Their inventory management must be a nightmare, especially as the stub of a pencil and the back of an envelope is about as high-tech as they get.<br /><br />Instead of tramping wearily around thousands of square feet of prime selling space, you merely ask the bloke in the grey overall behind the counter for whatever it is you might want, he metaphorically scratches his head in thought for a moment, goes squirreling down the back of the shop somewhere, and comes back clutching the necessary. During the course of the last year we’ve bought from him such varied items as Terry clips, wicker wastebaskets, a sledgehammer, some silk flowers, a gate latch and a stuffed Golliwog. (A few years ago they had a skirmish with the PC Thought Police for stocking these, but they employed the traditional two-fingered argument, which seems to have won the day, because they are still selling ‘em.)<br /><br />In fact, the whole “shopping experience” (ugh!) in Bromyard is a bit like driving into a 1950s time warp. There are several superb butchers, a couple of greengrocers, (one of which, if you go through an archway at the back of the shop) morphs into quaint old ironmonger number two. Unorthodox, or what?<br /><br />There’s a proper bakery, complete with olfactory stimuli, one of the best pie shops I’ve ever plundered, a pet shop, the statutory newsagents, a few pleasant pubs, (or at least, as pleasant as they get these days now that a puritan government has barred me from enjoying a pipe with my pint) a nice little continental style café, in fact dozens of small individual retailers selling just about anything one might want, short of a combine harvester (although I wouldn’t put it past one of the ironmongers to dig one of those out from the back of the shop somewhere, should the need arise.) And, thank heavens, a bare minimum of those High Street ambiance killers, Estate Agents and Charity Shops. Moreover, walking down the High Street from end to end, popping into whatever shop takes your fancy, takes far less time than trolleying around Tesco’s and facing the interminable queue at the checkout.<br /><br />You can even park easily and conveniently, ninety-nine times out of a hundred. (There are a minimum of yellow lines, of which nobody takes the slightest bit of notice, and I’ve never yet seen a Traffic Warden or a policeman.)<br /><br />If we lived there full time I’d do an online job for all the boring or heavy stuff, and drive into town daily for all the goodies and perishables.<br /><br />Anyway – so it was that, having finished my business with old Fork’Andles, I wandered next door to the bank. There were a couple of people waiting at the cash machine, standing the regulation four feet apart (it always gratifies me to see how well-mannered and patient the real English folk (particularly the rural English folk) are. And Bromyard is about as far from the urban multicultured nastinesses as you can get, not only in distance, but in attitude. I’d guess that most of them think that Muslim is a kind of trendy breakfast cereal.<br /><br />I join the end of the queue.<br /><br />Suddenly, just as it’s my turn at the ATM, I realise that I’m getting some very odd sort of wary looks, both from the queuers and various passers-by. Ignore it, Phil – they probably look at all non-locals like that. So I trousered the cash, and went to walk back to the car. The universal sigh of relief was palpable. Curiouser and curiouser.<br /><br />It wasn’t until half way home that I puzzled out what it was about me that seemed to disturb the good citizens of Bromyard so.<br /><br />I reckon that if I saw a bloke standing at a cash machine hefting a 3ft long iron crowbar, I’d be a bit concerned, too. Maybe, in retrospect, I should have gone to the bank first and the ironmongers afterwards. And thank heavens the local police presence is a bit sporadic, or else I’d probably have had my collar felt, to boot.<br /><br /><br /><br /><em><br />*Named after American bandit Willie Sutton, who when asked why he robbed banks, pointed out that “that’s where the money is.”</em></div></div></div>uncle philhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04870655412069180206noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4168283975506150502.post-3104861257406734692010-08-13T02:06:00.000-07:002010-08-13T14:06:53.017-07:00money money money<div align="justify"><span style="font-family:arial;"></span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:arial;"></span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:arial;"></span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:arial;"></span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:arial;"></span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:arial;">We went out to buy some fish and chips the other evening. It’s not something we do often – a large wodge of cholesterol-wrapped calories, no matter how yummy, doesn’t exactly get much of a menton in my cardiologist’s “Hints for a Long and Healthy” leaflet. Except filed under “Don’t even <em>think</em> about it, Fatty”.<br /><br />But we’d had a gruelling day, I didn’t feel in the least like cooking supper, and suddenly, unbidden, the Chippie sprang to mind. And as you know, when a fancy for fish and chips comes upon you, absolutely nothing else will do. “Aw – go on then” said Susie “ It can’t hurt us just occasionally”.<br /><br />So off we trotted to our local fryery. I was a bit badly parked, so I gave Suse my last £20 note, and sent her to do the necessary while I sat in the car in case a traffic-gollum slithered over our horizon.<br /><br />Eventually, back she comes, carrying a tantalisingly miasmic parcel, gets in the car, and hands me a crumpled fiver, three pound coins, and some small change.<br /><br />“How much”? I squeaked. “ The best part of twelve quid for two portions of fish and chips? Talk about the Piece of Cod That Passeth All Understanding!”<br /><br />Because when I was young, you could buy the same delicacy for about half-a-crown (12.5p for you under-fifties) a go. Two bob for the fish, and sixpence for the chips. .And you’d get some interesting (if somewhat greasy ) reading matter thrown in as wrapping, flavouring the contents with a subtle hint of printer’s ink. Of course, the Brussels elf-‘n’-safety Gestapo soon put a stop to this early attempt at re-cycling as unhygienic, with scant regard to the fact that it hadn’t hurt a soul in a century or so. And fish ‘n’ chips without its newspaper packaging never tasted the same thereafter.<br /><br />But it set me to thinking. Not about the seismic inflation rate since decimalisation, (well not after a time, anyhow) but about how much I miss the old money itself. There was the half-a-crown, a big, chunky coin, the earlier examples of which were made of real silver, as was the shilling, and the 2 shilling piece, or florin. The twelve-sided bronze threepenny bit, and its little silver forbear, much beloved of Christmas Pudding makers and Tooth Fairies. The old copper penny, much bigger than any coin we have today, and with more real purchasing power than most of ‘em. The farthing, or quarter-penny, which in my boyhood days still had some value, in my case for confections such as bullseyes, toffees or gobstoppers. The old white fiver, about the size of two paperbacks laid side to side, and printed in serious no-nonsense black on crackly crisp white watermarked paper. Serious money, in more senses than one.<br /><br />And the lovely slang names we had. The half crown was a tosheroon or half-a-dollar, the sixpence a tanner or zack, the shilling known to all as a bob, the two bob bit, the ten bob note or half-a-bar, the oncer or (slightly earlier) the Brad (named after a Mr Bradbury, Chief Cashier of the Bank of England, whose signature was on the pre-war £1 Note.)<br /><br />There were also some solid gold coins that were technically legal tender, albeit nobody in their right mind would proffer one – the gold content was worth far, far more than the face value. The Sovereign (Eastenders still talk of ‘Sovs’ , meaning pounds,) and that most elegant, useful and less-understood unit of currency, the Guinea.<br /><br />A throwback to Georgian times, the guinea was worth 21 shillings (£1.05). Gentlemen, the Upper Classes, the professional middle class, and some auctioneers with delusions of grandeur dealt in guineas (as Gentlemen of the Turf still do. )<br /><br />I say ‘useful and less-understood’, because as I saw it the first attribute was a direct result of the second. The main advantage was in adding to the confusion of Johnny Foreigner, whose mental decimal-based calculator was already having a nervous breakdown with the “twelve pence in a shillng, twenty shillings in a pound” concept. I used to work in a shop in Central London, and the sight of a vacationing citizen of Deepshit Arkansas running out of fingers to count with was one of the minor pleasures of life.<br /><br />But for me, the guinea had some domestic advantage, as well.<br /><br />When I had my Antique Dealer’s hat on I used to spend much of my time buying at auction – albeit very much at the the other end of the spectrum to the Christeby’s mob.<br /><br />The bidding would rise, usually in one pound increments, which the auctioneer would call, as usual. But every so often, just as the hammer was about to fall, I’d call out “Guineas, Sir!” which in effect is a 5% increase on the previous ‘pounds’ bid – easy to work out for a round number, but not so for - say - £23 or £57. So by the time the any potential underbidders had done the maths, the hammer had fallen and I’d bought yet another lot.<br /><br />Today’s cash is far less satisfying, somehow. But then it’s only a stopgap. Within a decade or so everybody will have to flash the plastic or set up an online payment on their voice-activated mobile computer (by then only periphally a phone) for every purchase. Inflation will make the coinage effectively worthless, and cash money will disappear altogether, with the result that every single transaction we make, no matter how insignificant, will be recorded somewhere, and open to inspection by any licensed snooper, corporate busybody or Credit Agency that takes a fancy to do so.</span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:Arial;"></span> </div><div align="justify"> </div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:arial;">But why should I care? By then I'll have well and truly cashed in my chips.</span></div><div align="justify"></div>uncle philhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04870655412069180206noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4168283975506150502.post-47213662066763135882010-07-22T05:40:00.000-07:002010-07-23T01:35:43.259-07:00Toil and Trouble<p><span style="font-family:arial;"></span></p><p><span style="font-family:arial;"></p><div align="justify"><br /><br />“Exercise!” quoth the Doc.<br /><br />“Nevermore!” quoth the bookseller, but only to himself - it would have almost certainly been wasted on the good medic, who hails from Whereveristan and who had probably never even heard of Poe, let alone read him.<br /><br />“Exercise – that’s what you are needing, Mr James – regular exercise. Two or three times a day. Nothing too strenuous to start with – stop if you start to feel breathless.<br /><br />I forbore from telling him that I feel breathless just getting out of bed of a morning. I need half-an-hours rest before I can climb into the shower.<br /><br />I omitted to remind him that my eroded lower lumbar is unravelling, almost on a daily basis, and that serious exercise in any form is a non-starter.<br /><br />I thought it imprudent to mention that I can barely walk up to the shops without an oxygen pack. And as for running for a bus (whatever that is) – dream on!<br /><br />I didn’t bother to inform him that I am an alumnus, graduate summa cum laude, of the “IfGodHadMeantUsToWalkHeWouldn’tHaveGivenUsTaxis” School of Locomotion. <br /><br />“But OK, ” I reasoned. “The man may have a point. Indulge him. Let’s give it a go. “ <br /><br />My mind harked back sixty-odd years to when I was a spindly lad, untimely ripped from the family bosom and thrust unwilling into the harsh surrealism that is an English prep school of the boarding variety. Whose headmaster had the notion that since the young Prince Philip had done fairly well for himself, what was good for him had to be good for us, so the whole place was modelled on HRH’s alma mater, Gordonstoun School, an establishment whose Spartan ethos made HMP Dartmoor resemble a sissy version of Butlins. And as far as I know, none of us got to wed a Windsor.<br /><br />We had to start off each morning (after the statutory plunge into a cold bath, that is) with a ten minute PT (that’s PE in old money – or as my dad would have said ‘physical jerks’) session (followed by a 3 mile run, but let’s not go into shudder mode.) Held in the school car park, perched half way up the Malvern Hills, it consisted of running-on-the-spot, stretching and bending ,jumping up and down into and out of a simulacrum of Leonardo’s “The Man” with legs apart and arms raised, and similar such pointless exercises. And woe betide any slackers. Slacking was a crime punishable by being named and shamed in front of the whole school, and losing house points, which made one seriously unpopular with the large lads in the Sixth Form, usually to one’s physical discomfort. Worse, the weekly chocolate fix (we were allowed a bar of Cadbury’s Dairy Milk apiece - price sixpence) went out of the window.<br /><br />In our Aertex shirts and shorts (standard garb, all year round , although they did issue us a thin sweater apiece during blizzards) we must have looked like one of those old Leni Riefenstahl films of the <em>Hitlerjugend</em> doing its calisthenics. Except that Leni only ever filmed in bright sunlight, but in early-morning Malvern it was usually misty or raining, when it wasn’t snowing. Or, as it was half the year, dark. Or most of these at once.<br /><br />In retrospect, I did inherit a dual legacy from this worthy regime. I ended up impervious to cold; and with a tendency to run a (metaphorical) mile in the opposite direction to any suggestion of unnecessary exercise. Or indeed, and by extension, anything else that was deemed to be ‘good for me’.<br /><br />Anyway - I knew the drill. It had been drilled into me every morning for six cold, wet, hungry (breakfast was still an hour away) years.<br /><br />So the following morning I creaked out of bed, took on a strong intravenous coffee to prime the pump, and set to.<br /><br />I thought I’d start with a bit of stretching and bending. The stretching part I’m good at.. It’s all those years pulling books from tops of bookcases as does it. I can reach a fresh bottle of Laphraoig down from the highest shelf in the kitchen, no probs. So far so good.<br /><br />The next bit is supposed to consist of standing on tiptoe, putting the hands on the hips, and slowly bending the knees until the posterior touches the heels<br /><br />The descent was OK, if a bit wobbly; at which point the idea is to slowly straighten up again, back into stretch mode. But my sense of balance isn’t as good as it used to be. And the joints aren’t as supple as they once were, either. With the result that just as my left knee gave out, with an audible crack, I lost my balance and fell over, hitting my head on the corner of the bedside table on my way down. <br /><br />So that was that, for a week or so. If at first you don’t succeed, give up, and pour yourself a stiff brandy.<br /><br />Nevertheless, I had a stab at various exercises over the next few weeks, with, frankly, limited success, although the attempts didn’t involve any further painful contact with either the floor or the furniture. And I only put my back out twice.<br /><br />But we’ll keep trying. Things are looking up. I managed to do most of a press-up this morning. </span></div>uncle philhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04870655412069180206noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4168283975506150502.post-45700571084662584372010-05-20T00:33:00.000-07:002010-05-21T01:30:30.705-07:00Moaning at the Bar<p align="justify"><span style="font-family:arial;">In my inbox this morning I found an email, offering to sell me a list of "150,000 criminal lawyers in the USA." Although why they shold think I have a requirement for a rogues gallery of such magnitude escapes me.<br /><br />Had I thought about it, I might just have realised that the Legal Profession, even the American Legal Profession, would almost certainly harbour a few rotten apples, but 150,000 of 'em? And presumably that's just the confirmed criminal element - they don't mention those that are merely a bit iffy, or for that matter those that haven't been caught yet.<br /><br />I think I'll write to Barak Obama personally and beseech him to do something about this scandal. We in this country tend to import American culture by default, and I'd hate to see a dramatic increase in the number of bent briefs here - we have more than enough already.<br /><br />To continue briefly on a legal motif, I was in the foyer of the local Ploddery the other day – not because I’d done anything that might have necessitated the aid of one of the 150K mouthpieces as noted above, but because I’d had my mobile purloined, and I had to go in and make a statement. It’s a nice new shiny Nick, our local, with a smart light oak hotel-style foyer far bigger than our front room, and with various doors leading off it, to interview rooms, cells, torture chambers and such. One of these doors had a smart sign, in brushed aluminium, saying “Disabled Toilet”. What I don’t understand is instead of some expensive and permanent-looking signage pointing out that the loo’s broke, why they don’t just fix it and have done. </span></p>uncle philhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04870655412069180206noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4168283975506150502.post-33787916870067711402010-01-23T02:54:00.000-08:002010-01-23T02:58:21.905-08:00de minimis non curat lex, if it's alright with you.<div align="justify"><span style="font-family:arial;"><strong>The British Labour Party has been dreaming up 33 new crimes a month</strong><br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Daily Mail 22/01/10</span><br /><br /><br />As I get older, there’s one thing I’m more and more sure of<br />It’s that legislation is what we need less of, and not, as we’re getting, far more of.<br /><br />Spawned by the aptly named Balls, or that femino-fascist Miz Harperson.<br />(Whose reforming zeal is rapidly turning her into a mad-eyed take-it-too-far Person.)<br /><br />We’ve a surfeit of statutes. A glut of rules, jurisprudence in superabundance<br />And bye-laws keep falling on my head like raindrops on Cassidy (or was it Sundance?)<br /><br />But legislating for ev’ry misfortune of which anybody’s ever dreamt<br />Serves only to make us all treat the Law with contempt.<br /><br />For if there’s one law the Bully State never learns<br />It’s the Law of Diminishing Returns.<br /><br />Besides, if we deserve so much protection from ourselves<br />Then they might as well put us in cages, number us, and stack us in shelves.<br /><br />We’re sufferning from teminal legislative overkill<br />So let’s suggest to the Mother of Parliaments that it’s time she went on the pill?</span></div>uncle philhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04870655412069180206noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4168283975506150502.post-84365519749611018362009-12-19T01:50:00.000-08:002009-12-19T01:51:14.372-08:00<div align="justify"><span style="font-family:arial;">From today’s BBC website:<br /><br /><em><strong>Whisky hangover 'worse than vodka', study suggests.</strong><br /><br />Drinking whisky will result in a worse hangover than vodka, according to research by US scientists.</em> <br /><br />No shit, Sherlock! I could have told them that, and for half the price. And during a controlled (-ish) experiment lasting decades I betcha I’ve done more practical research, than they have.<br /><br />For another large wodge of greenbacks I’ll happily affirm that vintage Port gives you a far worse head than either of them.. And if (because it might seem a good idea at the time) you get stuck in to the Taylor’s 1960 on top of half-a-bottle of Bells, you’re topping the Premier League, hangover-wise. That’ll be loadsamoney, please, Brown University. Cash in a Brown Envelope will do nicely.<br /><br />I can’t help wondering how many zillions of dollars this ‘research’ actually cost. And more to the point, why it was carried out in the first place. After all, it won’t make any difference to anybody’s drinking habits. Thems that have been hacking into into the Famous Grouse since it was an Unknown Egg will keep doing just that, while the Smirnov Brigade, having no doubt noted the pseudo-research, will neck an extra couple of large ones with a sigh of relief, a feeling of moral superiority, and a mixer to mask the taste.<br /><br />As my Grandmother Pearl used to say (in Yiddish) – “Only in America!”.</span> </div>uncle philhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04870655412069180206noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4168283975506150502.post-10378961397072446372009-12-16T08:12:00.000-08:002009-12-16T08:13:37.746-08:00<p align="justify"><span style="font-family:arial;"><strong>A Well-spent Age.</strong><br /><br /><br />What is it with doctors?<br /><br />I went to see mine the other day, – I say ‘mine’, but round here we don’t have personal medics these days – the Surgery - sorry – Health Centre - consists of two Principal Doctors, with a consulting room each, (but to see either of them you need to book an appointment a month before you fall ill,) plus several part-time registrars box-and-coxing it in the third consulting room, with the result that you never know which one you’re going to get, until you’re told by the touch screen computer they’ve just installed just inside the door in order to book you in. This is presumably to save the Receptionists having to put their conversation on hold in order to talk to you, although this isn’t a bad thing, in practice – the computer has far more warmth and personality then the Receptionists ever managed to muster, and doesn’t look down on you like you were something it had just stepped in.<br /><br />After the usual 25 minute delay, sat on what must be the most uncomfortable seats this side of Death Row, the computer paged me to go into the consulting room. Today’s incumbent was young, female, and pleasantly ethnic. I’d not seen her before.<br /><br />I was there not because there’s anything particularly amiss – I’m in rude health, other than the usual list of minor ailments and annoyances that septuagenarian flesh is heir to, but because they’d asked me to come in for what they call ‘a medication check’. I don’t know why they couldn’t just look at their own notes, and read the list (unchanged for the last ten years at least) of pills they prescribe me. These must be working – I’m still here.<br /><br />Anyway – the consultation consisted of a blood pressure check (passed with flying colours) and a two minute conversation to establish that the prescription needed no re-adjustment , and as far as I’m concerned was a complete waste of time, both mine and hers. But I suppose it keeps the paperwork straight and the NHS computer up to date. So that’s alright then. Admin, having stolen an hour or so out of my day to no purpose, can breathe easy.<br /><br />But, seeing as how doctor’s appointments are supposed to last the full ten minutes, regardless of how many people are kicking their heels in the waiting room outside, I then had to be treated to the statutory inquisitorial lecture to fill the time in.<br /><br />“Do you smoke, Mr James? “<br /><br /> “Omigod – here we go again”, I thought, and pointed out that her colleagues had asked me that question every time they’d clapped eyes on me over the last twenty years, and by now it must be engraved ineradicably on just about every page of my notes. Unclean! Unclean!<br /><br /> “Yes”, I said. “not cigarettes any more, though. I smoke a pipe.” </span></p><p align="justify"><span style="font-family:arial;"><br />“You really should think of cutting down an bit,” she said, in her best headmistress to recalcitrant schoolboy voice (and of course without taking the trouble to enquire as to the level I was expected to cut down from, or for that matter to inform me as to how much I should cut down to. The theory presumably being that no matter how little I smoke, the Nanny State still requires a decrease.)<br /><br />I pointed out that over the last decade or so I had voluntarily “cut down” dramatically, from the 4 packs of Benson and Hedges a day which was my norm for about 40 years, to about an ounce-and-a-half of pipe tobacco a week. That’s what I’d call fairly serious pruning, but somehow she seemed less than impressed. “Sniffy” comes to mind. “Did I want a leaflet?”<br /><br />No – I Bloody Didn’t! Why is it that everybody in a position of little brief authority these days thinks that every problem can be solved by stating the obvious in a turgid multilingual folded a4 pamphlet?<br /><br />“And I really do think you should start losing some weight”, she went on, waving a diet sheet under my nose. A diet sheet, let me tell you, describing meals of such an awful grey, puritan bland institutional dullness that I wouldn’t impose them on my worst enemy. Not even on the local VAT inspector. Not even on Wee Gordy McBroon, although he’d probably think them irresponsibly hedonistic. No fats, no sugar, no starch, no alcohol, no red meat, no dairy products except the abomination known as skimmed milk, no chocolate, no biccies, no salt, no nothing. No nothing, indeed, in several languages, including Punjabi, Urdu, Arabic, Polish, and various scripts I didn’t recognise. I thought of asking for one in Hebrew, but bottled out.<br /><br /> “I want you to stick rigidly to this for a month, and then come and see me again”.<br /><br />It was at this point that all diplomatic niceties deserted me.<br /><br />“For God’s sake, woman! I’ve been fighting my weight since I was fifteen. I’ve tried more diets than you’ve had hot dinners. I’ve variously starved myself, purged myself, bored myself titless, and stressed myself out. And my weight hasn’t altered a jot.<br /><br />Just answer me one question. To quote the Good Book, the days of my age are threescore years and ten. So at what point will the National Health Service say to me “Phil – you’ve reached a ripe old age – now eat what you like, smoke when you want to, have a few drinks if the mood takes you, sprinkle a bit of salt on your veggies, in fact stop trying to give up, or feeling guilty about not giving up, all the things you enjoy.” Against all the odds, I’ve reached seventy, for God’s sake. What age will I have to achieve to be allowed to do as I please, without having somebody haranguing me on the supposed evils of all the minor pleasures of my life? ? Eighty? Ninety? A hundred? “<br /><br />And do you know – she had no answer to that.</span> </p>uncle philhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04870655412069180206noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4168283975506150502.post-33762010483898440582009-11-25T10:03:00.000-08:002009-11-25T10:04:23.053-08:00<p align="justify"><span style="font-family:arial;"><strong>By any other name……..</strong><br /><br /><br />We were in Sainsco’s – not our local bandits as it happens, although I guess they’re probably all much of a muchness, but another example further afield. We only wanted a couple of bits and pieces rather than the customary over-indulgent truckload, and it happened to be on the way back from where we’d been to pick up a load of books.<br /><br />The store was quite busy – it was after all Saturday lunchtime - but we weren’t that fussed – grab a basket - nip round – pick up the few odds and sods, and straight to the quick checkout..<br /><br />Except.<br /><br />Except why is it that supermarkets – they all do it, no matter which flavour – why is it they always station the slowest dimmest, most gormless checkout girl, or the one who speaks the least English, on the quick checkout line? <br /><br />And why is it that there’s always some female (they’re always female – it’s obviously a Girl Thing.) in front of you with about forty money-off vouchers to be fed one by one through the system, whereafter she’ll check her bill, item by item, with Ms Dimbo Snailspace al Raschid at the till, and then, and only then, she’ll spend ten minutes going through all her various pockets, handbags and shopping bags trying to find her purse, thereafter counting out the cash, more often than not in large quantities of coin. Grrrrr!<br /><br />So I’m standing at the checkout behind her, with thoughts of slow torture and bloody homicide running through my head, and the Tannoy erupts into life.<br /><br />“This is a Colleague Announcement. Would all checkout colleagues please assemble at their checkout points. “<br /><br />“A Colleague Announcement” ?<br /><br />A What????<br /><br />Why, for God’s sake? <br /><br />Is plain English really no longer good enough? OK – “workers” is probably pushing the Trades Descriptions Act envelope a bit, but why is the word “Staff” suddenly unacceptable? And why do they have to “Assemble”? A simple “All staff to the checkouts, please” would be so much easier to understand, and so much less intrusive to pedantic Linguaphiles like wot I am. Besides, who do they think they’re trying to impress? The place is almost entirely staffed by ethnic minorities, most of whom wouldn’t know a colleague from a cauliflower. And as far as the customers are concerned, providing there’s somebody they can ask where the Orange Squash lives, or if they sell paper plates, couldn’t give a toss whether they’re speaking to staff, colleagues, workers, esteemed employees, the Board of Management, the Archangel Gabriel, or the Great Panjandrum Himself.<br /><br />Anyway - eventually, we manage to dump some of our hard-earned on an undeserving Sainsco, and head for the exit. I’m surprised they don’t call it an egress – it sounds so much more superior. Except that the customers (how long will it be before we’re “clients”, I wonder) probably wouldn’t recognise it, and they’d spend all afternoon asking some ‘colleague’ or another for the Way Out.<br /><br />On the wall above the door to the Car Park I noticed the following rubric:<br /><br />“Sorry you have to go. Come again – see you very soon. Drive safely.”<br /><br />So not only have I spent half-an-hour buying such comestibles as would have taken me five minutes in an old-fashioned grocer’s shop, but now I find I’m being commiserated at for leaving their premises, being ordered when to report back, and by implication having my driving criticised.<br /><br />By a Wall, no less.<br /><br />Sorry, Sainsco, I shan’t be coming again. Soon or otherwise. On me, you shouldn’t rely, if you aren’t prepared to eschew all this fake posh and verbose rubbish and tell it like it is.<br /><br />Or in the case of the Wall, preferably not at all.</span></p>uncle philhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04870655412069180206noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4168283975506150502.post-8057398538895445272009-09-01T01:34:00.000-07:002009-09-01T01:43:35.577-07:00Babes and Sucklings………..<span style="font-family:arial;"><p align="justify"><br /><br />This morning, I find myself at a loss. I don’t know whether to be amused, amazed, embarrassed, or just plain touched. All of them at once, probably.<br /><br />We have, included in the eight lovely grandchildren Susie and I share between us, a little lad called Rhys. Second son of Sharon, Susie’s younger daughter, and her husband, Mark.<br /><br />Rhys is about 18 months old, and at that fascinating stage where he’s beginning to turn from a mere blob, noisy at one end and insanitary at the other, into an individual person in his own right. He’s quite articulate for his young age, but he obviously tends to think in generics, rather than specifics; for instance to him all dogs are called “Gemma”, after our younger rough collie, with whom Rhys has an ongoing love affair. Which is mutual - they adore each other.<br /><br />Now, as anybody who knows me will attest, I’m not exactly noted for a slim trim figure. Lithe, I’m not. I have an extensive (and expensive, come to think) tum-tum. “Stout” will cut it. Or “Corpulent”. Or any other euphemism for “fat” you can think of. I don’t mind. I like me as I am.<br /><br />But why am I telling you all this?<br /><br />Because Sharon has just texted, to tell us that young Rhys has taken to pointing at a statue of the Buddha that she has on her shelf, and proudly declaring “Grandad”.<br /><br />Just wait till I see the little sod. I’ll give him “Grandad”.</span></p>uncle philhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04870655412069180206noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4168283975506150502.post-89519501228420207872009-07-25T16:04:00.000-07:002009-07-25T16:08:49.366-07:00Missing the point.<div align="justify"><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:85%;">I was speed-reading the headlines on the BBC website over coffee the other morning, and had almost reached the end when I realised that I’d glossed over something interesting.<br /><br />“ASDA sees total eclipse” impinged on my early morning half-consciousness.<br /><br />Bloody recession!” I thought. “Bloody Gordon Brown……..!. ”<br /><br />And clicked on the link.<br /><br />Then realised that it wasn’t about my favourite( ie nearest) supermarket going down the tubes, but an astronomical phenomenon in the Far East. <br /><br />I really should get a life.</span></div>uncle philhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04870655412069180206noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4168283975506150502.post-52948761438816520502009-06-29T02:15:00.000-07:002009-06-29T02:20:36.217-07:00Why did the Chicken Cross the Road<div align="justify"><span style="font-family:arial;">I have been giving some thought to this age-old question, aided and abetted by (and with apologies to) the following:<br /><br /><br /><strong>John Wayne<br /></strong>A bird’s gadda do whadda bird’s gadda do<br /><br /><strong>Inspector Morse</strong><br />Don’t be silly, Lewis. Get another pint in and stop worrying about chickens. This is a murder enquiry.<br /><br /><strong>Dylan Thomas</strong><br />Morning. On the side of the tar-black, car-black road Dai Dungheap dreamed of his wives; feather-arsed, feather-brained, clucking and pecking their way through mindless, worm-important lives. Blind Captain Cat, sitting at the window of his snug cottage with his early morning tea-and-rum, bible-dark, treacle-thick, half-heard the ‘Cockadoodledoo’ as the fowl fluffed out his sleek, green-necked, sheen-necked plumage, self-important and shiny as an admiral’s hat, and crowing loud as a travelling preacher, began to cross…………..<br /><br /><strong>William Shakespeare</strong><br />Thus do I cross here, as the plot doth thicken:<br />In sleep an eagle; waking, a mere chicken<br /><br /><strong>Jane Austen</strong><br />It is a truth universally acknowledged that a chicken in possession of a good road must be in want of a reason to cross it.<br /><br /><strong>Rudyard Kipling</strong><br />If you can cross each unforgiving highway<br />With sixty seconds-worth of distance run<br />You’ll earn the right to crow “I did it my way”-<br />And what is more, you’ll be a chook, my son.<br /><br /><strong>Tony Blair</strong><br />I must tell you - New Labour – new chicken – new road. That’s what we mean by a caring society, a society where a chicken doesn’t need to give a reason for crossing a road, a society where we the Government have earmarked billions of pounds over the next five years to provide a new road system for our chickens – yes – our chickens - to cross………….<br /><br /><strong>Voltaire</strong><br />Dans ce pays ci c’est necessaire qu’une poule traversait la rue de temps en temps, pour encourager les autres.<br /><br /><br /><strong>Genesis, 1</strong><br />In the beginning God created the Road. And the Road was without form, and void.<br />And God said ‘Let there be chooks: and there were chooks.<br />Male and female made he them. And God saw that it was good<br />And God spake to the chooks: Thus spake the Lord God:<br />O chooks – eat not of the Tree of Knowledge which groweth on the other side. Cross thee not the road, for the wrath of the Lord thy God is mighty<br />But the chooks did cross the road: And the chooks did eat of the Tree of Knowledge<br />And The Lord God spake thus unto the chooks, saying:<br />What is this that thou hast done?<br />In sorrow shall thou bring forth eggs, and the extra large ones thereof shall make thine eyes water, yea verily.<br />And thou shalt peck about in the ground for evermore, and feast on worms, thee and thy children and thy children’s children, yea even unto the lands of Colonel Sanders………………….<br /><br /><strong>John Betjeman</strong><br />Mrs Partlet crossed the High Road,<br />Back to comfy flat in Sheen;<br />Frozen chicken in her basket,<br />Safely wrapped in polythene.<br /><br /><strong>G.K. Chesterton<br /></strong>Before the Romans came to Rye or out to Severn strode<br />The rolling English chicken crossed the rolling English Road.<br /><br /><strong>Cole Porter</strong><br />Hens do it; Cocks do it;<br />Even Orpingtons or Wyandottes do it<br />Let’s do it;<br />Let’s cross that road<br /><br />Each batt’ry hen, now and then, does it<br />If let out from its bed<br />A bantam cock, if in shock does it<br />And a Rhode Island Red<br /><br />You’ll find a point-of lay pullet does it,<br />Even Chanticleer like a bullet does it<br />Let’s do it!<br />Let’s cross that road!<br /> </span></div><div align="justify"><span style="font-family:arial;"><br /><strong>Robbie Burns</strong><br />Wee cluckin’, feathert cacklin’ Beastie<br />O what a panic’ s in thy breastie<br />Thou need tae start awa sae hastie<br /> Tae cross yon street.<br />Aye, me, I’ll gang tae rin and chase thee,<br />Thee for tae eat!.<br /><br /><br /><strong>Geoffrey Chaucer (from the Cackleberry Tales)<br /></strong>And smale foweles maken melodye<br />That slepeth all the nyghte wyth open ye<br />So makyth them nature yn hir corages.<br />Thann longen hennes to goe on pilgrimage,<br /><br /><strong>Winston Churchill</strong><br />Some chicken! some road!<br /><br /><strong>Anne Robinson</strong><br />You are the weakest chook. Goodbye.<br /><br /><strong>Margaret Thatcher</strong><br />This chicken’s not for turning!<br /><br /><strong>Ogden Nash</strong><br />I am often asked for a reason as to why the chicken crossed the road.<br />I wish I knowed.<br /><br /><strong>Sir Arthur Conan Doyle</strong><br />WATSON “Is there any other point to which you would wish to draw my attention.”<br />HOLMES “To the curious incident of the chicken.”<br />WATSON “But Holmes - the chicken wasn’t there. It was across the road”<br />HOLMES “That, my dear Watson, was the curious incident.”<br /><br /><strong>Albert Einstein</strong><br />e-mc2<br />Where e = the energy used in crossing the road, m = the width of the road in metres and c = the circumference of the chicken.<br /><br /><strong>The EU Agriculture Commission</strong> – Directive EU/7/1995/D24T99XK/EL56 Part 67SD3 Section 21<br />A summary of rules concerning the crossing of roads by chickens. For the full directive see Publication EU/12/2000/495720937/fr/645/ay (HMSO 6 languages 1854 pp price £1450 inc VAT)<br /><br />A chicken (henceforth known as the appellant) shall be defined as any live fowl of the genus cluckus domesticus indigenous to any sovereign member state or colony protectorate commonwealth dependancy or satrapy thereof(for non-indigenous fowls and other feathered livestock see Section 37) over the age of six weeks and either male or female (for capons see section 132 clause 544a) whether in the food chain or no subject to its meeting all requirements contained in Directive 272/ SDFVW723/RVWEKJ4W3RWJ section 27 clause 533a and regardless of whether or not the appellant aforesaid has an egg-laying capability within the meaning of Directive 164A235M 2E43/2HH/128 part3 but excluding in all cases domestic fowls other than ducks geese swans larks orioles and other edible avia imported to or exported from the United Kingdom and its colonies dependencies and protectorates due to the veto imposed by the government of Her Britannic Majesty and any emergency directives currently in force under the Salmonella Protection (eggs) Scheme and also pigeons whether wild or domesticated but it should be especially noted that a parrot is not a chicken within the meaning of this Directive<br /><br />A road shall be defined as any Motorway Autostrada Autobahn Route Nationale class A road class B road lane track public footpath or other highway river canal stream or other waterway situated wholly or in part in one or more member states and used for the transport of persons goods livestock cattle and other commodities always excepting substances prohibited under EU or national law but not excepting the transportation of cannabis within the national borders of Holland<br /><br />Permitted reasons include any lawful desire on the part of any such appellant(s) as defined above to traverse any road to reach the other side of said road always assuming that any such journey is not commenced during the hours of darkness as laid down by the governments of each member state and that any such journey does not involve or include the crossing of national boundaries within the Union and does not involve any fowls as defined above crossing any boundaries into or out of non-member countries states commonwealths (see Directive 1 – exports section 7 livestock and Directive 2 –imports section 7 livestock and section 23 clauses 678-932 quarantine regulations for non EU fowls) and that any such traverse is conducted in a proper manner by the appellants aforesaid subject to or within local or national traffic rules regulations bylaws and emergency strictures as may then in force and providing always that any licences permits visas permissions passports and other documentation as may be required as laid down by the Commission in Directive 11/2000/549/VFRWEV8ASCQ6567C have been obtained at least six calendar months before the commencement of any proposed journey ……………………..<br /><br /><strong>J.K. Rowling -</strong> from Harry Potter and the Chicken Soup of Mama Mephistofiles<br />The chicken crossed the road to where Harry, Ron and Hermione were standing outside the moonlit gates of Hogwart’s Academy. Harry could clearly see that there was something strangely different about this chicken, but couldn’t for the life of him think what it was. It wasn’t until the bird produced a crumpled cigarette from under its wing, stuck it in its beak, and gruffly demanded a light, that Harry realised who it was. “Cockamamie!” he cried joyfully………………………..<br /><br /><strong>W.S. Gilbert</strong> from “The Chikado”<br />The chicken that crosses the road, tra-la<br />Has nothing to do with the case.<br />I refuse to take under my wing, tra-la<br />A horrible feathery thing, tra-la<br />With a satisfied smile on its face,<br />(chorus) With a satisfied smile on its face<br /><br />And that’s what I mean when I say or repeat<br />To Hell with the chicken that crosses the street<br />(chorus) The chicken that crosses, the chicken that crosses<br />The chicken that crosses the street.<br /><br /><strong>Henry Wadsworth Longfellow</strong><br />By the side of Emmi- Leven<br />By the oil-spattered hard shoulder<br />Stood a chicken, feathers draggled<br />Daughter of the far Rhode Island<br />Far from home was this poor chicken<br />Far from lovely clean Rhode Island<br />O’er the shining Big-Sea water.<br />Standing by the Emmi-leven<br />Past her roared the mighty diesels<br />Past her screamed the Ford Fiestas<br />Middle-management Fiestas<br />Talking ever on their mobiles<br />Never seeing a poor chicken<br />Tired and hungry, heading homeward<br />Frightened by the Emmi-leven<br />Frightened by the fox behind her<br />In the dark and gloomy pine trees<br />Coming nearer, ever nearer<br />Looking for a chicken breakfast.<br />So the chook in desperation<br />Steps out on the Emmi-leven<br />On the busy Emmi-leven<br />Splat! The noise she made when dying.<br />Swallowed up by roaring traffic.<br />Chicken flattened by the traffic<br />On the fearful Emmi-leven<br />Never more to see Rhode Island ( and so on, interminably)<br /><br /><strong>Samuel Pepys<br /></strong>To Charing Cross to see the new fowl lately arrived from the Indies. These were being driven across the strand and into pens the further side thereof, and looked as cheerful as any fowl could do in that condition. And so to bed.</span></div>uncle philhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04870655412069180206noreply@blogger.com0