TESTING TIMES AHEAD

And whilst I’m on the subject of seasons, other than all that Yule time malarkey ‘tis also the season for medical testing.  You know, that time of year when the postman delivers more letters from the hospital than Christmas cards.

So many of these, I could paper the lounge walls

My last lot of blood tests revealed I still had a pulse so I’m off for another round of scans and tests courtesy of the NHS.  At the mo, I feel like I’m living at the doctor’s surgery and I could tell by one look at the receptionist this morning (fake chiselled smile on a granite-like cliff of a face) that she was thinking ‘oh no, not you again!’, adding to my growing sense of paranoia that I’m slowly becoming a hypochondriac. 

You'll only feel a little prick 

After all these visits, surely by now I’ve qualified for one of those neat little bronze plaques you see on the back of chairs or benches?

I’ve developed my own surgery etiquette for these visits since waiting rooms harbour more germs than Salisbury so if you’ve got an appointment coming up then here’s the drill:

     Wear gloves.  For those audacious enough also wear a surgical mask.  If it’s good enough for the doctor, it’s good enough for you.  Keep those hands to yourself.  Don’t touch any surfaces unless absolutely necessary and above all, don’t be tempted to reach out for a magazine.  Not only are they usually full of Chavvy trash but they’ve been handled by every other contagious bugger passing through.

Breathe sparingly or better still, wait outside in the fresh air until 5 minutes before it’s your turn.  Most infections are spread via airborne particles hacked out by said contagious buggers (or diesel cars if you believe the media) so the less time you’re exposed to the waiting room atmosphere the better.
    

     Avoid children.  I always pick the chair furthest away from any under 5’s.  Children are a magnet for just about any bug going.  Other than poor reports, the only other thing children regularly bring home from school is everyone else’s germs.

Create your own personal force field.  I do this by frequently fake coughing, panting or furiously scratching whilst waiting which generally results in all the surrounding chairs being given a wide berth by everyone else.

Lastly, let’s not forget the most important thing of all - bring an electronic device with you.  Not only does this help to pass the time as let’s face it, punctuality is not something rigidly observed by the NHS but it means you can sneakily consult Dr Google about your condition whilst waiting.  

I expect that once the results of all my various tests have been collated, I’ll be called back for a chat with the doctor that’ll probably go something like this:  ‘Ah, Mrs C, so nice to see you again.  I’ve checked your results and it pains me to say…’  Or put in more festive terms ‘It’s beginning to look a lot like …..’  

'TIS THE SEASON

Theatre-goers of the world unite against the scoffers, snafflers and noisy drink slurpers.  Death to the crunchers, munchers and scrunchers of plastic sweetie wrappers or crisp packets.  Why do you always have to do this during the most intense, dramatic scenes?  Behold the clickers, the texters, sniffers and whiffers.  Yes, some people brazenly ‘lift the cheek’ during plays.  There’s no escaping these stinkers in the dark, stuffy confines of even the plushest venues.

The pen is mightier than the sword especially when rammed into the eyeball of anyone guilty of these audience transgressions.  Why pay all that cash for a ticket to then selfishly spoil the atmosphere for yourself and everyone else?  Or am I missing the point here?  Perhaps there are people secretly masquerading as avid Shakespeare lovers when really they’re performance saboteurs, purposely annoying to get one over on every fee paying punter in the posh seats.

A couple of weeks ago at Poole’s Lighthouse concert hall, you could have heard a pin drop as the audience collectively held their breath at the closing of an exquisitely played piano concerto.  Musically divine, that is until some idiot in the front row dropped their mobile phone.  If looks could kill, the conductor’s eye roll death ray would have melted him on the spot.  I was almost on the verge of garrotting him from behind with my scarf but it just wasn’t long enough from Row E.  I was forced to remind myself that it’s not illegal for inconsiderate bastards to buy concert tickets.

Come on theatrical and concert venues across the land, let’s put a stop to these shenanigans once and for all.  Strategically positioned signs banning all food, drinks and mobile phones from auditoriums punishable by instant eviction might do the trick.  There was a time back in the old days when people were considerate and could actually sit through a performance without thinking of their stomachs but those days are well and truly gone.

And so I dedicate my less than Christmassy spirit to the person in the balcony at the Regent Centre, Christchurch on Thursday night who proceeded to loudly chomp their way through a Twix during the second half of Antony and Cleopatra.  

Here are two Christmas crackers for you to pull – firstly, please remember to feast during the interval.  Fifteen minutes should be more than enough time for a quick pee and to stuff your face full of chocolate.  Secondly – next time I’ll be waiting for you in the car park after the performance to force feed you a bag of wire wool so large you’ll be shitting brillo pads for weeks.

Bah Humbug!  Tis the season ….

FOR FOX SAKE

As a keen knitter, I was much bemused to read an article in this week’s Times newspaper relating to an alleged racial offence committed at Rochester’s Christmas Market where someone had the audacity to be selling knitted Mo Farah dolls.  How a knitted doll could be any more offensive than either a photograph, carving or oil painting of Sir Mo is beyond me and I’m sure Sir Mo would be more than chuffed to be considered worthy of this handcrafted homage but clearly to the good people of Kent it’s a crime worthy of punishment.

Knitting and crocheting is in itself an art form, a medium of woolly self-expression showcasing patience, dexterity and imagination.  It is not a weapon of racialism or any other ‘ism’, it’s merely a relaxing way of passing the time. 

Thus taking the view of the good people of Kent and looking at all the items I’ve recently knitted for our fundraising Christmas Fair then it looks like half my stock is now destined for the scrapheap on the basis that it would not be PC compliant as follows:

Foxes – considered vermin and frequently found scavenging in smelly bins or biting toddlers, not deemed to be cute or cuddly.

Promise I don't bite

Snowmen – contain the word ‘man’ which is now considered sexist. Should be referred to as ‘snowperson’ or ‘snow+’ and made less masculine in appearance.

Snowballs!

Gingerbread Men and Christmas puddings – depict sugary food items thus banned for encouraging obesity and see previous point on sexism.  Re-naming them ‘ginger person’ instantly brings to mind Prince Harry. 

Low calorie tree decorations

Toy Soldiers – a definite NO as deemed to be condoning warfare or violence and too much of a reminder that a huge chunk of the British economy centres round the manufacture or selling of arms to just about anyone with a cheque book.

Nutcrackered

Nativity figures – blatant religious imagery so offensive to just about everyone except Christians even though Christmas is technically all about the birth of Jesus.

Peace and goodwill to all 'person' kind

Of course if vegans had their way, knitting/crocheting would also be added to the list of capital offences since both these crafts use wool which according to them is ‘stolen’ from sheep.  So I guess this makes me and every other knitting biddy out there guilty of fencing stolen goods every time we knock up a pair of socks or an Argyle sweater. 

Stealing from sheep - punishable by death

Knitted racialism and wool ‘stolen’ from sheep, I mean have you ever heard anything more ridiculous?  This time the PC brigade has clearly overstepped the bounds of sense and sensibility.

CORNISH CAPERS

Cornwall – it’s not all pasties and clotted cream you know.  Although it was a bit of a close call a while back when ‘Pastygate’ threatened to tax Ginsters into extinction and as for clotted cream, I think I’ve gained 6 lbs just looking at the packaging!  Luckily, pasties and cream teas have not yet been abolished by the Obesity Police so I’m sampling as many as possible on our Cornish weekend before they suffer the same fate as dinosaurs.

Look out it's the Obesity Squad!

We’re getting away from all that crass commercialisation that passes for Christmas by visiting the land that time forgot, the Lizard peninsula, part of the ‘pigs trotter’ at the southernmost tip of the British map.    Spent the day exploring the lesser seen parts of Cornwall or polluting the countryside with my dirty diesel as per the environmentalists. Not a Christmas bauble in sight!

Have you seen any lizards round here?

You could have heard a pin drop at Mullion Cove where I suspect holiday and second homes make up 80% of the dwellings.  Not many grockles braving the chill wind early on Sunday morning except us nutters.

Mullion harbour

All is calm at Mullion

Early morning at Mullion Cove

On to Kynance Cove to look for the perfect pebble, breathe in the fresh air and avoid as many dog walkers as possible.

View over Kynance Cove

Looking for that perfect pebble

Reflections at Kynance Cove

The lighthouse keeping watch over the rocky reefs at Lizard Point stood tall and proud, buffeted on all sides by the twin tempests of weather and capitalism as arts and craft shops proliferate across the cliff top where sky and sea once met in solitude.

Lizard Lighthouse

The old lifeboat house at Lizard Point

Here’s the picturesque coastal town of Coverack where the disused lifeboat station has been turned into a fish and chip restaurant (that’s progress for you) and a large sign saying ‘NO’ to the commercialisation of the harbour is to be applauded.

Coverack Bay

Fish & Chips at Coverack's old Lifeboat station

Driving through these little Cornish coastal hamlets with the wind whipping up the surf and the sun’s rays bursting through the clouds, it’s not hard to park your troubles for a few days and just go with the flow.  Hey, was that a pasty shop back there?

Oi grockle! I was here first.

ITS CHRISTMAS?

Its Christmas!  Is it?  Hang on a mo, I’ve only just cleared the garden of rocket sticks and burnt out sparklers, I’m not ready for jingle bells. 

Our back garden Clanger firework display

It’s only the middle of November but not according to the retail industry who have already decked the shopping halls with boughs of holly, assaulting our ears with ‘Frosty the Snowman’ on a continual fruit loop from dawn till dusk.  Don’t they know it’s not cool for yule to be before December?

I know exactly how you feel

As if that wasn’t bad enough, there’s been more drama in our office this past fortnight than in a whole month of EastEnders.  All the constant sniping, bitching, whingeing, back-stabbing and tears before my 9.30 am cappuccino – its soooo exhausting!  I’ll be glad to see the back of all that when I retire.

And that’s exactly what I’ve been spending my time on, dear readers, obsessing about retirement or more importantly, how to bring this about sooner rather than later.  Instead of updating this blog, I’ve been poring over pensions, discovering the ins and outs of draw-down plans and trying to get my noggin round the nuances of  ‘death taxes’ and how to avoid them.

Say no more ...

It’s made me realise that all those years I thought I was feathering my nest for a comfortable retirement I’ve actually been a Fund Manager for the Treasury.  For every 20p the Government has given me in pension tax relief, I have unwittingly been investing this for them for free so that they can reap a hugely inflated tax reward later when I decide to get my grubby paws on pension proceeds.  Auto-enrolment kerrr-ching!  No wonder Spreadsheet Phil’s rubbing his hands with glee at the success of the new ‘pension freedoms’.  Who’s the real mug? 

To sweeten the bitter pill of the unfairness of life, I’ve introduced Ginge to the wonders of YouTube’s bird videos for cats.  

Bird videos for cats - it's mesmerising

Freeview have definitely missed a trick here by not hosting a kitty channel full of bird movies.  He’s been glued to the monitor for hours, chattering away and swatting the screen every now and then.  It’s hilarious.  Trouble is now I can’t get on the PC to update this blog!

In case it tries to fly away

Trying to pack?  Not now, there's a birdie

THE 3 Ms

Well knock me down with a feather!  My brother, the laziest blogger in ‘saarrf’ London, has finally updated his blog with the latest instalment of his epic garden refurbishment after 6 months of cyber celibacy. 

And whilst he’s been laying down more concrete than Ready-Mix or being a human starfish felting the roof of his new summer-house, I’ve been busy spending my loose change (see previous Techno post) in Italy.  Although these days, the pitiful euro exchange rates on offer mean your 5p’s are worth about as much as a slug sandwich.

So what are these mysterious M’s I’m referring to?  By this I mean Milan, Modena and Monza which have been the recent focus of my travels abroad:

MILAN – a city of graffiti and vagrants of which there’s little shortage of both.  Everything’s pretty in Milan; the people, the piazzas, even the pasta comes in fancy multi-coloured designs.  You’ve got to hand it to the Milanese for being in pole position in the fashion race.  They make your smartest holiday gear look like something you fished out of the Bristol Channel at low tide then dried on the back of a camel. 

Milan Cathedral

Galleria Vittorio Emanuele II

Fashion in Milan is not just about looks but it’s also about practicality.  Ladies, feast your eyes on this little beauty.  This large, capacious handbag is smart enough for the office but has a bright padded exterior that doubles up as a duvet or lifejacket in case you need a kip or unexpectedly fall into the sea.  Amazing! 

Handbag or Duvet or Lifejacket?

MODENA – is less about front-line fashion and more about medieval quaintness.  Famous for its fast cars (Ferrari), tenors (Pavarotti) and balsamic vinegar (a bottle of which costs as much as a full tank of diesel), Modena looks sleepy on the outside but I’m sure is a seething hotpot of Latin temperament on the inside.  Must be all that vinegar…

Modena Cathedral

Piazza Grande

Museo Casa Ferrari

MONZA – the Grand Prix of course, not the town.  I mean come on, is there anything else Monza is famous for?  Definitely not winning races as Ferrari got a thorough dicking by Lewis Hamilton in this year’s GP.  I was there to see it with my own eyes.  Better luck next time old chaps. 

Monza Grand Prix Lap of honour - Hamilton & Bottas 

Ah, Bella Italia!  

DRAGONFLY

Looking for somewhere to go in Bournemouth on a Saturday night?  Then look no further than the Flirt Café at The Triangle.  It’s hosting the opening night of ‘Dragonfly’ on Saturday 29 September 2018, billed as Bournemouth’s newest drag night. 

This event hopes to promote new ‘Queens and Kings’ taking to the stage for the first time and existing performers trying out new material, adding a bit of glitz and glamour to an otherwise dull autumn weekend.

Tickets are free!  Yes unbelievably, it’s a ‘pay what you want’ event so whatever you’ve got in your pocket will do.  Not something that usually applies to theatrical performances these days as ticket prices for the West End could easily feed or clothe a family of four for a month. 

Reserve your seat via https://dragonfly.brownpapertickets.com  See you there!

TECHNO TECHNO TECHNO

Bring on the technical revolution!

I want to be replaced by a robot with a brain the size of a planet that makes me look like I have the processing capability of a postage stamp.  Rejoice in redundancy!  In the future, we may not have any money but at least we’ll have personal freedom – the freedom to wake when we want to, dress how we like and squander our time on aimless pursuits such as counting cars (oh hang on, I think people actually get paid for doing that).

Life - just when you think it can't get any worse 

I want to be one of those 50 something’s who save far more towards holidays than healthcare.  I’d rather be swimming with real sharks (as opposed to battling those in financial institutions) and saving my energy (not to pay for extortionate utility bills or crazy renewable power schemes) but to climb to the top of some near extinct volcano.  Given the choice between an adventure holiday in some exotic location or Tena Lady and support tights, I know where those spare 5p’s will be going. 

Got any spare change?

Alas when it comes to automation,  it’s one step forward, two steps back in our office where ‘Those Who Call The Shots’ have decided to buy us an off-the-shelf IT system that falls surprisingly short of the term ‘artificial intelligence’.  Being 4 foot nothing, if I buy an off-the-shelf pair of jeans at least I know I can hem them when I get home.  However, in the corporate world when you buy an off-the-shelf IT system then if you’re a one legged midget you’re destined to spend the rest of your working life tripping up on a super-sized leg length.  Enhancements cost money and like common sense, this appears to be something in short supply at our workplace.

Bring on the technical revolution!  My office PC is being replaced by a system with the processing capability of a postage stamp that will make me look like I have a brain the size of a planet.  It will triple my workload and lessen my productivity.  It will make my grey hairs greyer, the air bluer with profanity and probably lead to a staff exodus that Moses would be jealous of. 

The real cost of technology

Do I care?  Not really as I’ll be saving all my loose change for an all adventure holiday in a far flung (non-automated) corner of the planet.

PANIC STATIONS

It’s the moment that every Ground Farce Team dreads, that realisation you’ve only got a few hours left to finish an entire room makeover before the owners return and burst into tears at the ghastly mess you’ve made of their previously lovely room.

This morning blurred into a mass piss and panic following a text from daughter that announced her imminent touchdown at Gatwick airport.   The phrase ‘I’m coming home to bed as I haven’t slept in 24 hours’ caused my heart to flip a triple somersault that would have easily scored a 10 at the Winter Olympics as I gazed upon her new divan and mattress still boxed up in the middle of our kitchen.  Oh dear, we haven’t a hope in hell.

Its panic stations as we rush around like lemmings hurtling towards a DIY cliff edge giving everything a lick, spit and polish on the way.

New ceiling light fitted into position – tick.

Ceiling Light - Trivia from B&Q

Bed assembled, made and headboard screwed into the back – tick.

Small double divan with 4 drawers

Fits perfectly into an already tight space

Mirror frantically polished and hung – tick.

Deco style mirror from The Range.  Deco lights from Ebay

Tortoise re-homed – tick.

Shelby's newly painted home

Clutter re-instated on tops of wardrobe and bookcase – tick.

How is it all going to fit?

There's a lot to be said for minimalism

A million pairs of shoes and handbags stashed in the divan storage drawers – tick.

How many pairs does a girl need?

Fireplace painted with metallic paint – no tick. 

Cast iron fireplace needing a good lick of paint

What?  No tick, no way!   Yes way.  You’ll never get two coats of paint on and dried in the time it takes to travel from Gatwick to Bournemouth. 

Before

After

It's almost like a different room

Fabulous retro style posters from Cool-o-rama

Not a bad effort for a Saturday morning, eh.  Just waiting for the owner’s return with a box of Kleenex to hand.