Damp & Dingy, so is the weather...

Lazing about this morning wasting my life away.  The rain fell continually and while not heavy dampened everything outside.  In the afternoon I strolled through the masses noting the food stalls unhappy about the lack of custom.  I was quite late and many were heading off but I think the rain has cut their joy tonight.

Selling a box marked 'Junk?'  Hmmm some would claim a touch of irony in there.  I dashed about in the small area called 'the town' and bought bread and cheese and hobbled home.  The Xmas cards are sorted, stamps added to most, three wee packets to wrap and post, possibly on Monday, and apart from local cards, no stamp needed, I am done for the Christmas year!  I do have to find food of course but a touch of custard and a tin of Spam and that will do me again.
My life is one long joy, does anyone wish to exchange?

Market

Rather a dreich day for the market to make a special effort today.  Cloud overhead and spots of rain at times spoiling the market.  Several new stalls selling overpriced food to hungry customers, a bread stall selling bread at £3:50 a go, it's £1:30 in Tesco, and cakes etc at £2 a time.  I know the stuff is good but my wallet made me avoid the area where the food outlets gathered. I also avoided my fruit & veg stall as I feel guilty about buying stuff in Tesco during the week.

The last market failed miserably as poor organisation, including not replacing the organiser, led to many complaints and how these townsfolk like to complain.  A better effort even if the weather failed to comply.  I suppose as it is a holiday weekend we ought to expect such weather.

   
A collection of 'vintage vehicles' was promised and these few turned up.  I suspect more would have come if the sun shone but who wishes to get an expensive old vehicle covered in raindrops?  This mid 70's Bentley caught my eye however these were not among the best produced so I did not make him an offer.  I noticed the Morris Cowley at the end and it reminded me of the old matron at Maida Vale.  When she came over from the main hospital she drove her Sunbeam Car dating from 1926 which looked similar in general shape to this Morris.  I suspect it was a family heirloom but I forgot the history.  Whenever she arrived it was imperative to allow the wards to know she was here and then talk about the car/weather/life for a few minutes while they nurse hid things that ought to be hidden!  I'm sure she never guessed...

In the 50's these Wolesley's were the main police patrol car.  This was fine until Jaguar produced their Mark V (I think) seen above as the gangsters being chased had a huge advantage of speed over the cops.  Soon enough the black Wolesley's were replaced by Jaguars, white ones in Edinburgh.  The police were happy enough with this but criminals were not so keen.
A small improvement to the market, reducing prices for stalls might be a better one of course, and shoppers buying from them instead of Tesco might also be a good idea.  I, it must be said, went into Tesco, there I almost had a heart attack, there were NO chips!  The fridge was empty!  Looking around I found some hidden in a corner but the entire are was bereft of chips!  Someone suggested fish & chips eaten by Catholics meant they run out but that does not ring true, it does not happen at other times.  I had to stop shaking before I went to the checkout, imagine no chips!  I could die!
er, I am off to eat some now so I will have to die another way...

    

It Was Better When...

Facebook has a page just for our little town.  This is an excellent idea and many pictures, adverts and much information regarding the museum happens to appear there on occasions, I know not how.  The page is used by many to conjure up memories of Braintree from days of yore.  A great many are now living abroad, some from work, some because life causes us to move away from home and a number of women who married the abundant supply of 'rich' Americans working at the many air bases that sprung up during the second world war.  The last base did not close until the late 90's and every so often these women return with their man to see relatives and have a jolly good time.  One, now widowed, arrived last Tuesday just as we opened to wander around the shop and obtain gifts to take home again.  Such folk use the facebook page to keep in touch with their past and keep an eye on the developing town. 

One  topic is the constant whine that 'The town is not the same,' or 'It's not as good as it was,' or the grumble 'It was better in my day.'  Maybe it is because I look at history and read things from the past, maybe it is because they are grumbling old people or maybe it is because they are right I know not but this annoys me.  The town is certainly changing, it has altered in the 21 years I have been here, but what these Moaning Minnie's forget is that the town always changed and altered, and old people just like them constantly grumbled that it 'was better in the past.'  
Look at the change to the market, the difference between the crowds before 1914 compared to those in the late 30's as seen above.  No animals are seen in the top picture possibly because it was a Saturday market and Wednesday may have had animals, possibly the animals are round in the high Street, I have seen pictures of Bulls there in the 60's.  Todays market cannot compete with either but if they could bring this back would the grumbles like it?  No, they would find many complaints.
For a start the women would complain about animal leftovers on their shoes, much abounding in the past, and then complain about the inconvenience of having to go from one stall to another for the daily needs.  The convenience of Tesco's would suddenly appear bright and the quality of goods improving, let alone the amount of cash no readily available for most was just not there in the past.
the men in the top picture are complaining about the cost of a pint, almost a shilling where in the bottom picture it might have been only 3 pence in some places.  The women in the top will be fussing about fashion in just the same manner of those in the lower picture, but in the top one more will have cash to buy more readily than the majority on poor wages in the bottom picture.    
All in both pictures will be grumbling the 'Kids have it easy today, not like when we were that age.'  The kids, if still around are saying just that very thing today while in the market.

The past is another country and far too many people live in it.  They look at the town and see it when they were young forgetting that what they enjoyed was not the town but their life in the town. The town they now see does not fit in with their memory but young folks today are having exactly the same thoughts as they, but will look back in thirty years time grumbling about how the town has changed.  'What is has already been and will be again.'  I am glad I moved when younger, I am glad I moved here, because I do not look back on my Edinburgh childhood and long to return, indeed many things make me glad not to be in Edinburgh, the early 1970's were not a good time for me and my memories are not always good.  I do have good ones from all places I have stayed as well as bad but too many forget the bad things that occurred in the past and block them out viewing their youth as a good place, forgetting the fears, problems and mistakes that have left scars but can be ignored.
Braintree & Bocking had around 12,000 people between them in 1914, when I arrived there were 30,000, now there is 40,000 and things do change and not always for the better.  The car enables folks to visit the big towns for shopping at big stores, the web enables online shopping and tastes change as well as markets.  The market has stood for over 800 years and will continue for many more, ever changing and always with grumbling people fussing about nothing all around.
Maybe they all ought to learn from me, I'm not one to complain...    

A Wee Motor

To unwind what I euphemistically refer to as my 'mind,' after leaving the busy museum this lunchtime I wandered through the joyful throng in the market place.  While bumping into one another, grumbling about prices, and then threatening the kids, they all beheld the tannoys cheerful Christmas music with delight.  Naturally I muttered "Bah! Humbug!" at every smile I noticed.  In the middle of all this I came upon the 'Kit' car.  There she sat, chatting away, as people crowded around taking pictures.

The owner stood by proudly, occasionally chatting about the car to interested passersby, mostly men.  The inside looks a bit like something out of TV, er I mean....  I've noticed the car here before during special events, and if you own such a creature you really need to show it off now and again or it's just a waste of time and money.  Whether he created the car himself or bought it I know not, but looking at this tells me I must get the tyres on my bike pumped up again.     

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Some Days......

Some days nothing goes right.  The whole week has been like this.  The bug has dampened my planet sized brain (and can I just remind you Pluto is no longer regarded as a planet), writing, studying, thinking, reading have all been strenuous this week.  However today I arose after six to sun shining across the park, I must stop sleeping on this bench, and soon wandered around to the market for the veg.  Two cheerless market men sold me the goods once again, and a third avoided smiling as he overcharged me for the next plastic bag of urgent supplies.  These men originate in London and carry the 'London effect' with them wherever they go.  There is something about the city that takes away humanity from the individual, and London specialises in this.  I suspect it was the same in Rome, with its million inhabitants, and five thousand years ago in Ur of the Chaldees I suspect smiling in the heat of the day while pushing through the 65,000 inhabitants of the mud brick city was difficult then also.  Funnily enough many villages find difficulty in smiling or being friendly also.  Inbreeding and fear of people who do not possess six fingers on each hand I suspect there.  North of Watford people tend to be more open, the small triangular corner based on Watford, spreading out along the south coast of Essex to Southend, and south through Surrey to the coast, contains the most off-hand and pig ignorant people in these islands.  I am glad to be just outside that area, here folks are almost normal, usually.

The day could have been a happy one however, but this ended in despair.  By half time in the Scottish Cup Semi-Final lowly Falkirk were three goals to nil up against Hibernian.  Did I splutter and giggle while meditating on things to say to my Hibby friends?  YES!  However then the sad days returned.  Not only did the 'wee team' recover and score three miserable goals to make the result 3-3 by full time, but in extra time the Leith scruffs went on to score a stormer of a winner thereby robbing Falkirk of a cup final and ensuring Hibernian once again attend Hampden park in May for another anti-climax!  To cap it all I sauntered out for a break between games and it rained half way round.  Now I expect my tea to be rubbish, Wigan to lose to Millwall in the English cup semi final, and the internet connection to disappear once again as it did yesterday for no good reason.  'TalkTalk' sort yourselves out!  Bah!

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Sunny Saturday

First thing most Saturdays I am round here attempting to find fruit and veg that will keep my slim lithe fifteen and a half stone.  I have been attempting to lose weight, especially when it touched 16 stone again recently and have decided a more disciplined routine is required.  This means less home made oatcakes, flapjacks and shortbread.  The trouble with such goodies is the tendency to be fattening, especially as I tend to eat them all, quickly!  So once again I was at the markets best fruit and veg stall seeking the weeks supply.  Bananas, apples, small orange things, and so on.  Naturally, as I settled down to watch the football on BBC Alba I was stuffing my face with chips!  

Well I was hungry......

Wandering about in the early morning sunshine, the wind still from Siberia, I photographed some buildings for the house project.  Amongst Grade II listed buildings we find this telephone box.  Designed by Sir Giles Gilbert Scott in 1935 and produced by a variety of manufacturers, these are fast disappearing from our streets.  The use of mobile phones, plus the majority of homes possessing land lines, such boxes are falling out of use and into disrepair.  Many have gone altogether but surely there is a need for a few to remain?  This is a very thin picture because the box now sits in the midst of scaffolding as the 'Swan' pub is repainted. Otherwise it would stand out from the pub which may  have stood here for seven hundred years.  

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Market Day

One thing about small town market day s the number of yokels who arrive from the rural areas. You can tell the men at a glance. For one thing they are strangers whom you never see in the normal run of things, and in a small town you often see the same faces day by day. For another they look like country folk! We live in politically correct days in which stereotypes are not allowed to exist. We are not allowed to recognise swarthy Mediterranean types, blonde Teutonic Germans, or badly dressed loud Americans, but they do exist no matter how much we deny this. The stereotype of the somewhat gormless bumpkin, out of place in town, appears here on market day. They usually wear flat caps, have uncut hair, and jackets that were bought in a sale one January not long after the English queen took her throne. Their boots are not fashionable, and have not been since Gladstone left office, and the men all too often have bicycle clips just above the ankles, even though the wife brought him to town on the once a week bus. Without a tractor to get around on, a spade or saw, or any other violent looking implement in his hand he feels awkward and as out of place as he feels. He is of course right to feel this way. His lady often is no different from the regular run of girls in town, and one is left asking how on earth they got together? Cynics would put forward the theory that as close relations it was a family duty to marry one another but they are just being rude!

Of course their accents give them away. Not only are some of them so loud they would deafen Italian women talking to Spanish señoritas but it sound like 'The Archers!' As country folk round here they only use vowels of course! Aye EeeOOOhhhh IIIIIIiiiiiiiiiii YOUUUUUU is the sound when the men talk, although they do tend not to talk unless spoken at by her. Often she is asking why he is looking at the 'Bull' and not listening to what she is saying about the stalls.
In the past I delivered to a small village just outside of town and there was a very strong 'village' attitude about the place, not always a bad thing of course. One male had all the indications of a life spent working in the fields. he also retained the surly inability to smile when passing, a 'grunt' may have escaped him but it could just have been deep breathing. This creature had a wife, of similar age, and every month the book club box would arrive for them. I looked at it one day, and considered the couple in all their glory as I read 'The Romance Book Club!' I suppose with Farmer Jones's ploughman in the house she didn't find romance too often there. At least not when he brought the oxen home for tea!

Market Day Murder

I made a mistake today. Not for the first time I can tell you and most likely not for the last. The mistake was to forget that today being 'Market day' the town would be full of people. Add to that the second mistake, the idea of wandering amongst the stalls and shops in the middle of the morning when the place was at peak 'women shopper' time! This mistake ranks alongside the man at Decca telling the Beatles that 'Three guitars and a drummer is old hat folks,' or 'Old Moores Almanac' claiming foretelling the future for September 1939 as 'Peace!' While some may say there are differences between market day and these examples I suggest you attempt to squeeze past a fat woman and a stall selling biscuits, then negotiate between two old dears looking at each other and pointing in different directions caring nothing for the hordes attempting to pass. Subtle hints like barging into them with a pushchair (and what sort of creature takes a pushchair into such a small space anyway?) or throwing a small child at them fails to get any recognition. Similar types push themselves in front of you as they leave the 'Special offer' shops, ignorant of normal people (male) attempting to gather a few precious needs. As you enter a shop you note that what you require is at the back and the obstacle course comprises too many stands, full of delicate things that fall far too easily, and yet more large unseeing females who think shoving a coat hanger in your face as you pass is nothing to complain about. The store, which of course has exactly what you want at exactly the wrong size, has to be fought through once again as you head for the door, the shop staff convinced you have some stolen item inside your jacket. The fact that you have your arms pinned by their sides by the crush of thoughtless shoppers is not a thing they would notice.

Having fought against the hordes of Vandals and Huns who comprise the normal Wednesday morning market day to the fruit and veg stall, and discovering the best stall is not there, only the Essex boys with their cheery wit and lying smiles and rotten fruit placed by sleight of hand into the bottom of your brown paper bag, you head back they way you have come. This time the bird in the red jersey, worn such a manner to inflame the desire of the men she fancies and enrage the jealousy of the women she passes on the way, this bint decides to grab you attention by skillful use of the pushchair her greeting faced brat is screaming blue blazes in. She also uses blue words when confronted (in love) about her driving ability. Short and frank is the conversation, as indeed are many others at this time. The postman pushing his trolley loaded with business mail around the town 'accidentally' lets you know he is also passing by muttering 'Some of us have jobs to do you know.' Knowing he spends half his day having free coffees and buns (something I never obtained on any walk when I was a postman) another short conversation takes place.

Why do women stop in the middle of the way and stare? What is it that hinders the ability to move to the side and let folks pass? Just because you are looking at a stall, or a window display, for some magical treat you neither need nor actually can afford, is there any need to hinder the rest of the world. MOVE!!!! But no. Females must stop the traffic just to contemplate something, anything, that is in front of them. Ask them what it was two minutes later and they cannot tell you! I have been taken, by force I can tell you, through a department store, up hill and down dale, until we reached the curtain department, one of my favourites I can tell you, just for her to take some material in one hand, rub it between her fingers and mutter, 'Hmmm.' Then we left. 'What was that about?' says I. 'I just wanted to look,' says she. All this for 'Hmmm?' says I. 'Yes,' says she, as if the hour had been worth it in some way.

However, today I surpassed myself. Coming out of 'Woolworth's' were the Mongol Hordes, pushing and shoving, and attempting to avoid the bookstall and the girl selling overpriced candles ('Ideal gift,' for who?) while not stumbling into a woman searching her handbag in the middle of the remaining space. Behind me a crowd of stampeding cattle were being held up by this female. The narrow space in which we crushed seemed to get smaller as we waited for her to do something and, finally, she did. She stopped looking in her bag and just stood there with a soporific smile on her face. From the other direction I thought Ashur-bani-pal and his Assyrian army were coming towards us,but I may have miscounted, the stalls around us swayed and yet more arrived from 'Woolies' as another pushchair arrived to scream its way into the fray. Just than a small still voice came from behind a hand proffering a leaflet with Santa prominent on it,
'Merry Christmas' said the voice cheerfully. It was at this point that I took out the chainsaw and cut the old bint in twain. I then proceeded to carve my way through the Assyrian army, any runaway cattle and each and every pushchair headed in my direction. As I got to the end of the market I found that I had been followed by several dozen men. 'Thank the Lord for that,' said one, I thought I'd never get out of there again!' The others said the same. 'Never shop on a market day again,' said a big ex army type,'It's far too dangerous if you ask me.'
We looked back at the carnage brought by the chainsaw, and were satisfied.

Tesco's

Ah Tesco's, or the 'Happy Smile Club' as I like to call it. As I wander around I want to shout 'Is everybody happy?' But never quite get round to it. Today was not too bad, in spite of it being noon and the kids being on holiday. I think most of them were wandering around filling mum's trolley while mum put all of it back as soon as she noticed it. The rest were sitting in the fridge, climbing up the shelving units and just generally getting under the feet and up the nose like brats do. But they were at least happy!

Ah happiness, where does it go when you enter a supermarket? Here, in the midst of vast wealth, where goods from every part of the globe are displayed, where overweight, overdressed (well except for her in the gray outfit, doesn't she know it's October?), folk with large 4x4 vehicles and houses filled with stuff they never use and don't need, here amidst all this wealth folk never smile! They wander around lost in their own world. occasionally you will see a deliberate nudge used to 'encourage' someone to move a bit further up the meat counter, a glare when a trolley is pushed over a foot, and, when I am around, questions asked as to why it takes a woman so long to 'pay up and get a move on out the way woman!' The cry 'I didn't need a shave when I came in!' may follow this. But I am so irritable these days, age you know. But how often do folk smile? Ask them a question and in this small town some women will respond helpfully and cheerfully, others will regard you as a rapist! Suggest with a smile they move their trolley so one can pass and receive a stare that Margaret Thatcher would run from. I blame women's magazines myself.

I ended up with a checkout lass who, although she filled the small area given to her with ease, the 'healthy option' stuff she obviously avoids, had eaten her good nature along with her porridge. A smile, received a grunt, a helpful suggestion received a silence, a comment that I was sick and at deaths door received the question 'Why don't you knock then?' I muttered thank you as she through the card back at me and raced for the door. I am just glad she was in a good mood!

I did think of trying for a job like that, part time. But the more I look at the folks doing it I can see why they get so uppity - folk like you and me! Imagine having to deal with the public? I have done it, so I know why it is so demanding. I would kill if I was on a checkout, it seems easy but how wearing and boring it must be day after day and hour after hour. hard to smile then.

Of course after I walked the long way home I realised I forgot the milk......

Saturday in Town

Any Saturday in town is a busy day. Folks come in from the outlying district, locals rise early to drive the short distance to the queue to enter Sainsburys car park, mums with kids make sure their little darlings are on their worst behaviour before leaving home, and to start the day the postman rings the wrong bell at 7:30 just to let you know he has been up since 4:30!

The fruit and veg stalls in the market do manage to look attractive in the sunshine. I have always been tempted to get the camera and attempt to capture the great colours shown there. I have never managed to get round to it, but one day, one day…. It is a small market town, much changed since the days cattle were penned in the town centre and real country folk wandered around speaking only in vowels, Ooo, aaarr, and all that. If you ever come across those that remain you feel you are trapped in an episode of Radio 4s ‘The Archers!’

The towns size is small, around 30,000 when I arrived eleven years ago, touching nearer 40,000 nowadays, yet on Saturday few appear to relish travelling the fifteen miles to one or other of the bigger towns in the area, instead I am under the impression they all want to be in ‘Tesco’ at three o’clock just when I am buying my ‘two for £5’ chickens. Now why should that be? Have they all deserted the other supermarkets just to annoy me? It seems so. The impression I am left with when in ‘Tesco’s’ at such a time is that I have some sort of sign across my forehead or on my back saying ‘This One!’ This gives the women permission to shove their trolleys straight at me as if I was not there, the aged men, always the older ones, permission to stand in the middle of the alley with a trolley and stare into space, and it also allows any brat within miles the right to scream and yell at much more than the regulation ninety decibels whenever I am in the vicinity. It never fails to amaze me the way mothers go on after you shove a kiwi fruit in the gob of such children, I mean it is full of Vitamin ‘C’ is it not?

Of course, after standing for a short eternity in a queue of folk who have no idea how to smile or communicate in anything other than confrontational grunts you then find a youth on the checkout who is going through his ‘hardman’ phase.’ Glancing contemptuously at you he hurries the goods through the till and repeats the total cost in an urgent manner while you struggle manfully to open the bag. Then taking his time to return the change, deliberately pushing it for all it’s worth he utters either a cheeky word or throws the money in such a way you drop t under the feet off all and sundry. The phrase ‘forgive your enemies’ comes to mind at this point, although by this time you have grabbed him by the throat and granted him your best ‘Glasgow Kiss.’ Unfortunately, not coming from Glasgow it hurts you as much as him. Then of course everyone else in the queue starts to complain, as they will have to wait longer. Then there is the problem of the other staff, the security man, the two, rather large and unpleasant police constables, the surly desk sergeant and the uncaring magistrate to deal with – and all for two chickens! Well, that’s how it usually works out for me anyway…..

Taking your headache through the market, being crushed by passing pushchairs at one side and ridiculously fat women at the other one heads for the charity bookshops. Well, they actually sell all the usual dross and are always full of women finding cheap clothes that make them look good, while what I buy makes me look like I have been to the charity shop! How come? Anyway it is the books we look at, I really need nothing else, the place is already full of tat, I glance quickly at one sometimes two or three rows of books and wonder what they tell us of the folk who live here. In this place we learn that the women are drenched in Catherine Cookson and Barbara Taylor Bradford type tales. In short, pap! Row after row fill the five charity shops we have left here, nothing more stimulating than those large annuals loved so much by the kids who received them at Christmas that most have pages missing, badly drawn stick men all over them, and the occasional remnant of sticky bun holding the thing together. When I lived in London the nearest ‘War on Want’ shop was in an area full of middle class trendies. The shelves were packed with good, and often pretentious, things. Vast quantities of books on architecture, history, art, society stood alongside photographic works from the best around, religious and philosophical works rested by books on advanced maths, which I ignored, and the society reflected was an educated thinking populace. Not, it must be said, a better one, although many thought they were, but a ‘thinking’ population. Here we are blest by Jilly Cooper……

Fighting past the hordes who stand with their pushchairs blocking the passageways, getting as close to the stall with the radio tuned to the football, and wondering just how the fat woman over there will ever attract folk to her driving lessons when surely if she enters a car it will tip to one side, passing the man selling cheap watches, my last one from him lasted exactly 24 hours, and resisting the attractions on offer at the ‘Wimpy’ bar I make for home.

Watching the queue at the cashpoint I wonder that there is anything left by this time of day and collect yet another leaflet, not from the ‘Kings Church’ this time, the local music group advertising their next out of tune spectacular. The traffic which has polluted the atmosphere while arriving now does the same on the slow road home. Piled high in the boot are masses of real bargains from the supermarkets that will no doubt be thrown out rotten and unused in the weeks to come. It lies alongside the desperately wanted shiny new objects that will soon lie gathering dust under the bed or broken on the floor of the kids room.

Cynical, who me?

Maybe, but this is real life, well, with a slight exaggeration here and there, and I suddenly find I love it. How funny. This is home, in spite of it all, and it’s better than some places I’ve been.

I must be sick…….

Christmas at the Cave of Adullam

Once again it is that time of year. The time when shops are crowded with self-seeking, pushy, pig ignorant folks preparing to celebrate the time of goodwill to all men. The time of year when shopkeepers raise their prices so they can reduce them later by a fraction, always calling it a ‘great saving’ before Xmas is over. The time of year when daft folks spend thousands of pounds covering the outside of their house with fairy lights and plastic Santa's. Always claiming they do it for charity, and not just because they are stark staring bonkers!

This is the time of year when countless TV adverts are stuffed full of snow scenes, often Victorian. Ignoring totally that it never snows at Christmas, that snow is bloody awful stuff, and that the cheery Victorians displayed actually died in their twenties of Rickets, consumption or malnutrition! We wish you a merry Christmas, oh yes indeed! Come try carol singing at my door in Victorian dress oh yes!

Apart from the requirement to spend vast sums of money that does not exist, on goods that are not worth the expense, on kids that will forget them almost immediately and adults that give back presents that come nowhere near the value of the gifts handed to them, thus leaving one considerably out of pocket, apart from that, Christmas can be a happy time. Unless you take sick, fall down the stairs or have lost your keys/wallet/mind! All of which are possible at this time of year!

The arrival of Christmas means of course that another year is nearly finished. Once again the hair has turned a more blatant gray, the stiffness in the muscles increases, football players earning £40,000 a week look like children, policemen call you ‘dad’ instead of ‘oi!’ and the energy levels that once took you up hill and down Mrs Dale have gone and left you exhausted while watching televised football. This weariness results in an ever increasing irritation at the amount of ‘pap’ pedalled as worthwhile in the press or media. Societies incessant demand for meaningless trivia sticks in the throat like Moms apple pie. And we know what sort of cook she was! ‘Reality shows’ showing as much reality as a six pound note, find audiences in the millions. While most tend to be small minded, pig ignorant adolescents with malformed brains grown ups and intelligent folk have been known to watch, with glazed eyes, the deviants, attention seekers and psychopaths who thrill televisions high earners so much.

‘Why Should Britain Fear!’ as they used to say.

The high heat of summer saw an opportunity to obtain a red skin and itchy arms for a while. Holidaying by trundling the bike five miles up to a local village of wife swappers and business frauds made for variety. Usually this occasion brings contact with drug dealers and ‘Eastender’ species. You have met them. These are the folk that complain about those foreigners (e.g. blacks) who have moved into the area. To avoid contamination with such immigrants these folks roll up their ‘Daily Mails’ and run off to the Costa Brava to mix with thousands of others of similar mind. No curries in Spain mate, just good old fish and chips!

The accommodation continues to inspire love and devotion. Except the tiles falling off the bathroom wall into the bath, when I am sitting reading my books there. The draught round the bath since the failed attempt to line the rim has been more noticeable as the outside temperature has fallen. The video plays now, one day it will once again record, maybe. I would Google for instructions or repair on the PC but that collapsed and left me with a small laptop, which has several troubles which googling does not answer. The building itself does have a strange smell now, one I had not noticed before. My neighbour mentioned that this has been noticed only since the washing machine broke down. He moved recently. The machine is still broken....

Another Christmas bringing to an end another year of joy and happiness. This leaves us looking forward to another of the same.
Another year of mistakes and breakdowns, of disruption and those needless police raids just before dawn.
Another year off sitting in the park with a can of ’Special brew’ and muttering and growling at passers by.

It’s tradition!

Another year looms bringing the opportunity to be caught outside in a thunderstorm wearing nothing but summer wear, the same summer wear now worn for several years. Another year to find Visa bills falling through the door in a heap, another year of ‘Asbos’ caused by sitting on that bench in the park, of late night noise from folks nearby, of sniffling away at that cold that has hung around since 1987. Another year of finding the milk has run out and the shops have closed, another year of past intimates telling of their success once they have moved on. Another year of wandering round the market at closing time picking up moth eaten cabbages and such for lunch. Another year to look forward to the same as the last, and the one before that, and on and on and on and on back to time immemorial.

Another Christmas. Another cup of ‘OXO’ followed by a mouldy tangerine. Another attempt to drown sorrows in that £1:25 wine form Somerfield. (Two for £1:95) Another Christmas to look forward to, I must go and prepare......

Somerfields

Yesterday I went to Somerfields. I go there in the middle of the day because it is always empty. The poor quality of the goods and the cheap, off hand staff make it by far the least of the supermarkets in the town, if not the country! However it was mid morning when I turned up there. Lo and behold it was stuffed full of staff, all running around like headless chickens shelf filling! Never before have I seen so many workers in Somerfields.
The customer count was high also, with some folks doing the weekly, or is it monthly shop that morning. Imagine, buying every thing you need from this store! Jings! But here once again the true nature of the store showed through. While the chickens filled the shelves no-one bothered to serve the customers! Only two tills were opened, both staffed by unsmiling snails. Here also Somerfields absurd checkout system shows its weakness. The far too small, and clearly cheap, bags hang on rails at the end of the far too small checkout. While the goods pile up folks struggle to fill the bags and get on their way. This is excaberated by the fact that most are female, and as you know, slow at everything that requires simple logic
I headed for the cigarette kiosk where small baskets can be served. No quicker, and the glum fat sixteen year old, more intent on getting home to watch some imitation Oprah type programme, was doing her best while other staff bundled around beside her helping no-one and doing less.
Somerfields, the down market, less classy store! I wonder if they ever ask themselves why Tesco make a £billion half year profit eh?

Women eh?

Things they say.

When watching the news on TV, the announcer speaks of war and rumours of war, of death and destruction, earthquakes and violence, storms and drought.
She says,'Look at your hair darling!' Or, 'What is she wearing now?'

Passing someone we know in the street she will comment,'She is depressed.'
'How do you know, she seemed fine to me?'
'Her fringe is over her eyes.' ????? Fringe over her eyes??? This means she is depressed???
Bald men cannot get depressed then?

Another is 'You ought to have known I was in a bad mood!'
'How?'
'I was wearing red!' ?????? Red???? Eh?

Trainilng through a department store we can go upstairs to the top floor via every department in the building to reach the chosen land. Grabbing a piece of cloth in between her fingers she will stoke it for a nanosecond and murmur, 'Hmmmm.' Then say 'Let's go.'
Hours spent wandering around a store to say, 'Hmmmm!'
Asked why, the reply is, 'Because.'
'Because!' ?????

We have spent the last thirty years being lied to by feminists. Each one saying different things about women's needs. Each one attempting to say women and men are the same. How glad I am that many women are realising they are not. They are meant to be different, that is how it works! Anyone who cannot see that has chosen to be blind, for reasons of her own.
Women's logic? There's no such thing!

Pickle

I am in a pickle!
I buy a large jar of 'Tesco' pickle instead of the normal size. This is my way to save pennies.
But I cannot get it opened!
I use all my strength, all my initiative, all the tricks, yet it will not move!
I am afraid the jar might break if I try harder.

So I get out the hand strengthening tools, work hard pumping to build up the finger power,
and now I cannot get the jar open.
Why?
The muscles in my hand hurt to much from all the extra exercise!

The jar is in the bin.