Just when you reach the point.....

of despair.

This was the sentence I intended to begin this blog with, for a very good reason. You know when you read the papers and watch the news on telly, and then you chat with your neighbour or with a colleague, and all you get is despair and despondency?

You reach a point when you ask yourself "is there any goodness left?".

Just in case you had reached that point, I'm here to tell you that "YES", there is.

Yesterday morning, She With The Short Fat Hairy Legs dragged me off to Sheffield with her, to Crystal Peaks shopping centre to be precise. It isn't the biggest centre in the country, but it is a fair size and therefore presents to me a far greater walking challenge than I could accept. Therefore, my little shopping buggy, electric go-cart, dune buggy, speed machine - call it what you will, was broken apart and loaded into the boot of the car.

On arrival, the dune buggy was reassembled ready for my use. Now, I have a bright yellow coat with reflective stripes for use with the buggy. This serves many purposes; it makes me a highly visible object to other street users, it keeps the rain and the wind out and it has fairly large pockets.

I donned my coat, carefully making sure that my little shoulder-hung card/phone wallet was safely tucked away, and orf we went, into the Shopping Centre, firstly to find Her Dad and sisters at the little cafe where we were to have a little brekky and a natter.

After that, She went shopping - here there and everywhere, the end resuly being that my little dune buggy was loadede with bags hung from the handlebars, in the basket, on the platform and so on. I must have looked a rare sight, me in the yellow and white reflective striped jacket and all those coloured carrier bags.

We were on our last run, with one call to make before our exit and were headed for the Sky tv gondola where they were flogging their services. I thought they might be able to answer a question I had.

Anyway, there we were, me running slowly since the buggy will run faster than She walks, whereas when I'm afoot, She is the faster of the two. We were almost where we wanted to be when I felt a tap on my left shoulder. I turned my head, expecting to see one of my sisters-in-law, but no, no sight of them, so I carried on.

It was a gentleman who came up behind me who had tapped me, to tell me that I was about to lose something on the floor. Sure enough, trailing on the tiled floor, was my card/phone wallet, held tenuously by its thin strap.

Picking it, I could see the strands of thread where the strap had come away from the wallet proper and it was only the pressure of the big jacket now holding the other end inside its folds.

I called 'thank you very much' to the gentleman, but all I could see was a departing back amongst many, disappearing into the maze of the market. Since the man had come up from behind and had carried on walking as I tended to the recovery of the item, I didn't get to see who he was and could not recognise him again.

Thank you Sir, whoever you are, you've given me cause to hope that the goodness left in the world is still there, waiting for an opportunity to show itself.

It's bloody well gone!

My car, that is.

Stolen, borrowed, nicked, mislaid or whatever, the effect is that I'm beredft of that piece of machinery that gave me my independence.

I'm not exactly housebound, but I have to rely on others if I want to go anywhere and I don't like it. The car was not exactly the most luxurious or comfortable, but it worked and it got me around in reasonable comfort. Now, I'm obliged to rely on the Missus' little roller skate, which is most uncomfortable.

What happened was this. We were due to go away on a long-booked week's holiday and, during the immediate week previous, the car started to give off 'bag of hammers' type noises. This was diagnosed as hydraulic pump on the stearing. Not wanting to pay sky high and extortionate prices for what is, after all, an old car, my youngest lad, who's training to be a Land Rover mechanic, found a pump on the web, at a reasonable price.

It was touch and go whether this pump would arrive in time to be fitted in time for us to take the car on holiday, but arrive it did. The Lad said that, if it didn't arrive in time, then we could make other arrangements and he would arrange for the car to be taken over to where he works, where he would fit the part and would change the filters and oil, and give it a going over, ready for our return.

He managed to fit the pump on our drive, on the Friday evening, prior to our going away on the Saturday morning, so, as far as he was concerned he could go away for the weekend in the knowledge that we were sorted.

He left on the Saturday morning for his 'thing', which was to go off roading in souped up motor cars, an activity which I've recorded elsewhere. However, Missus had, when things were uncertain, arranged with her Dad to come over and take us on holiday, as her car is totally unsuitable.

When my car was fixed, she told her Dad thanks, but he wouldn't be needed, BUT, overnight, I had a 'funny do' and was not at all well, so, unbeknownst to me or anyone else, she phoned her dad late on Friday night to say the arrangement was on!

So, he turned up and his car was loaded up with my scooter and the luggage, plus us of course, and off we went, leaving my car on the drive.

On the Monday evening, th youngest Lad returned home, noticed that the car wasn't there, which is exactly as he expected, so it wasn't until we rolled home on the following Saturday, IN GRANDDAD'S CAR, that the penny dropped.

Mine was missing!

We made what enquiries that we could, and by this time, I, being a bit poorly, was somewhat dischuffed, so didn't report it until the next Monday morning.

I was given an incident number by the Police call centre and 2 days later, was given a crime number by the Police! I could then report to the insurance people.

There has been no news as yet.

What is it with these kids?

To tie up with this, my latest 'Grumpy Old Man' piece, you may need to look down below to the picture wot I posted with the 'Careless or Stupid' item.

To the right there, behind the Baghdad type concrete bollards, is a sort of green which is, in fact formed by the corner of the two roads, as the houses there are set back. Kids play on there from time to time, which is fine by me, since it is relatively safe for them, except when they play ball games which are forbidden.

The number of times one sees someone kick a ball onto the road and someone to race after it, regardless of traffic. A couple of weeks ago, I saw two kids, about the age of 10 or 11 - old enough to have a modicum of sense, you'd think. They each had a golf club, and they were driving stones, pebbles, rocks, whatever you want to call those smallish pieces of natural hardware.

When I saw them last time, one of them managed to connect with a stone, which flew and struck the side of one of the cars parked at the side of the road there. The two lads ran home like the devil himself was after them, away up the road and out of sight.

You'd think they'd learned something from that experience, yes?

Wrong! The little buggers are back. They're hitting stones in all directions, towards the houses and towards the cars. Glass windows are fragile and are easily broken, you know! Perhaps they know that too?

There's no point in ringing the police, as I know from experience they won't be the slightest bit interested. I'd hate to think what might happen should they actually strike a car or house window and the owner should happen to see it!

The 'Happy Birthday' Party

I thought I was being clever, but it turned out I was not quite as smart as I thought I was, or as I'd like to be. It's a long story, so please bear with me.

So, She With The Short Fat Hairy Legs has reached a milestone birthday, and to mark same, She began dropping hints many many months ago that sh would enjoy a birthday bash, much the same as one we attended way back at the beginning of the year. That was when she got the idea, and began dropping hints.

Of course, we took no notice.

Recently, we both of us forgot our Anniversary until such time as we were reminded of it by the receipt of cards and congratulations and all that stuff that the Ladies seem to enjoy (is this a built-in trait, I wonder?).

So, when She took me out for a meal to mark the occasion, I told her that this would probably upset what I had planned for her birthday. You see, I'd remembered all on my own account, without help, that her birthday was coming up. I told her then that I was going to take her out for a quiet meal, just the two of us. Naturally, she wanted to know 'where?' but I told her to wait and see.

Now, having made all the necessary arrangements, the idea was for me to shoot off with the Birthday Girl, leaving the kids to follow by a different route. She was all ready to leave them to their own devices and had told them in no uncertain terms that they were on their own for a while. When No.3 asked if he could come, I heard her use a word I'd never ever heard her use before! Obviously, she was looking forward to the intimacy of a romantic evening with the most handsome chap in the world.

However, No.1 son's car is off the road, so they were short of transport, as they now intended to pinch Her little car for the occasion, which would hold only 4 bodies. As it happens, No.2 has just spent the week in hospital, so I told Her that our Daughter would have to come with us because No. 3 was off somewhere with No. 1 and No.3 wasn't up to looking after her.

Mrs.G accepted this and our 12 year old little lady fell in with it - objecting and moaning like a teenager.

So, come the night, I had to get Her out of the way, not too early and not too late, as I had to give the others some space and time to get ready and get there before us.

So, all prettied up in our best bib and tuckers, I set off to 'find' somewhere to have a meal. We looked at the Lock Keeper, we ruled out The Roman's Rest and discovered that The Parish Oven in Thorpe Salvin doesn't serve on a Sunday after 4pm.

There was nothing that I fancied in Harthill and so we paused at the Treble Bob in Barlborough. We'd been here before but it has changed hands and No.1 had recently been there. So, sitting in the car park there, I rang him to ask him (in a clear voice) whether it was worth the effort.

He told me that things were not quite ready and people were still arriving and to hang on a long as possible.

Problem and Herself was getting fidgetty, but the little one chimed in, as arranged "What about The Half Moon, Daddy? We've been there before, and I like it."

So I agreed it was a good idea, but paused to take a look at the De Rhodes Arms. This was getting awkward, so I was obliged to set out towards the Half Moon.

"It's a good job there's no traffic behind you!" say's Herself.

"Why?" says I, innocently.

"Cos you're driving so slow!" says She.

"So? We're not in any rush, are we?"

"No, but I'm getting hungry."

So, when we rolled on down the hill to the Half Moon, I carefully checked to see if there was any danger, and parked in a spot reasonably close to the door. We parked up, and off She poddled to the door, leaving the Little One and yours truly to follow in her wake.

She passed out of sight round the corner of the pub and we heard a squeal of surprise? delight? wonnder? She had only gone and bumped into her Dad, who'd stepped outside for a cigarette!

OK, so this was a coincidence, as her dad tried to make out - maybe. She hurried inside to discover that it was no coincidence, as some 28 family and friends were there waiting for her to arrive.

There were tears, of course, but this did not spoil the evening as the Birthday Girl had the best evening that I could give her.

I'm rather pleased it went so well.

Happy Birthday Girl.

Careless or Stupid?

We live at the corner formed by two roads, the one being the main road through the estate and the other leading off to another section of the estate. Both are quite busy at times and the junction can be quite dangerous, especially when cars are parked close to the junction itself.

As you look at the picture, imagine a car parked on this side of the main road which sweeps from the front middle, down to the left. Picture this car just side of the bus stop (to the right, where you see the lamp standard), and you will then be able to imagine a blind spot at the junction proper as a car comes down the road.

We get a lot of quickly moving cars, both up and down and round the corner into the side road.

A few days ago, I was standing in my yard, watching the traffic, when I saw a fellow on a bike on the pavement coming down towards me, past the bus shelter. He was in the company of what I guessed to be his little son, also on a bike, one of those tiny childrens' ones. They were both kitted out with helmets and the little kid had gloves, knee and elbow guards. All very proper.

When the little one reached the kerb, he stopped and waited for his dad. I heard the man tell the kid to look around, which he did and when they saw a car coming up the hill from my left (his right), wanting to turn right into the minor road, they waited. As soon as this car had turned and had moved away, the man told the kid to go and to wait the other side.

Only one small thing. He neglected to check to his right to see if anything was coming from behind. There was and fortunately, he was going slowly for his turn left. He was unsighted, due to the parked car. Had he been doing what many do, that is to screech round the corner, that little kid would not have stood a chance. As it was, he was able to stop, allowing the kid to continue across the road to the safety of the other pavement to my left.

A close call, I think.

The picture shows the layout which I have tried to describe.

Change of Plans

A little while ago, I told how I proposed to take The One With The Short Fat Hairy Legs out to a splendiferous meal in celebration of her milestone birthday. This was the "Old Man's Imponderable" entry down there below.

Now, being the sensitive and considerate gentleman that I am, as is well known in certain circles, I have taken heed of all the replies and suggestions so kindly offered by the many people who took the time to respond to my appeal.

Several people approved of my intentions, if not my choice of venue, but on reading the responses, I detected a certain hint of disapproval suggesting that I might do better for her. I got to thinking that maybe you were right, perhaps the place might not be quite suitable for the special occasion.

I was minded to change, to seek another place and this course was thrust upon me when I learned that the establishment of choice would not be open on a weekend! This caused me quite a lot of distress and extra effort, but, being me, and driven by the wish to 'do my Lady proud', I've located another place nearby.

It's rather more 'upmarket', I'm told, more salubrious in its clientelle, and is rather more expensive and 'classy'.

I'm sorry about the quality of the pic, but I had to 'snatch' it as we swept past, so as not to give the game away to You Know Who.

This is it.








One good thing. As it will be evening, we will be well placed for a romantic interlude. Just imagine, She and I, each with our Big McChoke, intimately settled in the car, watching the sunset's changing light reflected in the slurry ponds of the sewage treatment works.

What better could we have?

Dog Pee, Rain and can I go back to bed please.

Our poor little dog has tried his best to fit in to the family and we love him to bits, but I'm beginning to think hard about the slogan "a dog isn't just for Christmas" and am beginning to add the words "with a little care, there'll be enough left for Boxing Day". This morning, in the wee small hours, I was too tired to think about that, but not now, in the cold light of day.

Let me explain. Because he's a loveable, frisky, cuddly four-legged beast with a pair of heart-melting eyes, it doesn't mean that he can't be a little sod as well. Much like kids, I suppose. One minute you love 'em to bits, the next you want to strangulate the little buggers.

First, I have to explain how the little doggy woggy, Bracken by name, confirmed the safety of the new electric system, installed when they did some work on our house. Yes, THAT work, of which I was moved to write so feelingly.

They installed new wiring with a new distribution box, complete with Earth Leakage Trip, or Residual Current Device. I'm told that this enables the unwary householder to stick his fingers into any handy light socket without harm, though the practise is, quite understandably, discouraged.

With the previous distribution unit, we used to get the power cut off whenever a light bulb failed but, I'm pleased to say that this hasn't so far happened with the new one. I was a little concerned as to the effectiveness of the new one, until Bracken pissed on one of the wall sockets. This is a surface mounted box, installed when the council did their previous bodge job before we moved in here. This box is at floor level, within handy reach of the little sod if he's taken short and either doesn't want, or can't be bothered to go outside.

So when our furry family member proved the effectiveness of the residual current device, the power was instantly cut off and he didn't even receive a tingle in his todger - not that we know anyway. Whatever, the experience hasn't taught him to steer clear of that place, and there are no burn marks on the pooch that we have to explain away or camouflage.

At 1.30 this morning, all was well with the world, considering that we were a body short with No.2 still in hospital. Suddenly, the power went off, causing the phone belonging to No.3 to start chirping as his charger stopped doing its thing. He woke up, saw that the power was off and came to wake Herself and Yours Truly.

She clambered out of bed and went downstairs, stumbled around to find a torch and immediately the pair of them saw a wet patch on and around the offending power socket. Bracken! The little bugger been at it again.

While they were fiddling around with the power of a small torch, I came out of the bedroom and the first thing I saw was the green power light on my stairlift. So, I rode downstairs on it and on reaching the bottom, reached over their heads and switched on the houselights!

Different circuits!

Anyway, this gave the lad light to see what he was doing, so he removed the top of the power socket to find it wet inside, yellow wet, dog pee wet. The pair of them wiped this out with tissues then tried the trip on the consumer unit. No go, it still tripped out.

I had the idea that it might be the caravan feed at fault. No.1 has a caravan which he has parked in our front garden and recently took a feed from the house into it. Since he's had his 'relationship' issue with his girlfriend, he's been kipping in there. Now it's been raining cats and dogs and I suspected that the rain might possibly have leaked into the electrics in the caravan. I recalled him saying that there was a small problem in that quarter.

I asked No.3 to pull the plug on the lead to the van and hey presto! The power came back on.

So, it seems, the woolly maggot may not be wholly to blame for this morning's hiatus - it was probably the rain outside as well. Either one or t'other, but the fact that the power only switched back on when we detached the caravan cable - so the little bugger may be allowed to inhabit whatever quarter of the house he chooses, so long as he stops pissing on the power sockets!

And this is 'Good' ?

I don't think so.

I posted earlier in the week how our two elder sons (Nos.1&2) were admitted to our local hospital on consecutive days for different reasons. So many of you have been solicitous of their welfare, for which they and we, Herself and I, are very grateful.

Number 1 stayed overnight and one day before they released him, having deduced that an infection had caused his agonising and painful gut problems. Actually, it was a recurrance of a very old problem, one which he's had for some 20 years.

He is home, thankfully, revovering, and is back at work.

No.2, however, is something different. He went in, when was it? - Monday I seem to recall, when Herself took him to A&E as he was suffering from sudden pains in the chest and left arm, then right arm and then all over.

He was admitted there and then. They did all the heart monitor things with those electric pads all over the place and took blood samples etc. They said that the heart was OK, but said nothing more. As far as I'm able to report, from what has been told to me, they have told the lad nothing either.

He hasn't been seen by any specialist that he's aware of. He hasn't been made aware of any treatment program either, only that they constantly monitor blood pressure, temperature etc.

He's bored out of his mind and not knowing is playing on his mind.

Now, as to our own deductions, we can only surmise. From my own experience, they ruled out a stroke by the absence of tell-tale chemical in the bloodstream. We do not know what happened with the lad in that respect.

Herself is concerned because of what a friend told her. No.2 Son displayed exactly the same symptoms as did her (the friend's) daughter of the same age - sudden pain, loss of use etc. She was diagnosed with a mini-stroke.

The Lad told his Mam that several of his ward mates asked him what he was in for. Of course, the Lad didn't know, but described his symptoms. As one, they all said 'mini-stroke' - BUT WE DO NOT KNOW THIS OFFICIALLY!

We are not expert, and we have every right, as does the Lad, to know what it is, if anything, they have discovered and for what he is receiving hospital attention, and if nothing, then why is he detained there in the first place? The Lad is of a Majority, but being disabled, we are his Minders, as Herself is mine.

I myself deduce that they are monitoring and that conditions can be discovered by the simple blood pressure/temperature readings, heart rate etc - but it would be nice if they were to tell the Lad what is happening, don't you agree?

An old Man's Imponderable

Every so often, something crops up to tease a fellow and to wreak havoc with his reasoning processes. Best laid plans and all that.

Such a matter has arisen and I was, quite frankly at a point where I was quite literally going frantic with worry as to choice. Then I realised that I have out there in cyberspace, a whole host of friends only too willing and able to offer good advice, so here I am.

Let me set out my problem. No - firstly, I'll tell you of my plans, then I'll tell you of my problem, when I'll also specify the dilemma for which I seek advice.

Now, having been happily married to The One With The Short Fat Hairy Legs for what seems more than the 28 years it really is, a special anniversary is imminent, for which I have been repeatedly hinted at. Having recently forgotten our wedding anniversary, I was obliged to take Herself out for a meal - no, I tell a lie and to be honest, she took me.

This time, it is Her Birthday, an event which, I'm given to understand is quite important to Ladies in general. I cannot understand why. This one approaching, where Herself is concerned, is quite significant in that She has reached a Milestone.

She will reach the ripe O*d A*ge of fififififif- sorry but it would be churlish of myself to say it, even amongst friends like yourselves. It

You'll just have to trust me when I say it's important. Very Important.

So, as a token of my abiding love and deep respect, and my wish to do something very special to celebrate the Occasion, I have decided to take Her out for a meal, a Very Special Meal, an expensive meal, a memorable meal. I've scoured the area, seeking advice here, there and everywhere and have dug into my memories, such as they are, and have finally chosen the place and the time.

It was a difficult choice, but this roadside emporium won and I have to tell you, I'm pleased. We can look forward to a tasty meal in comfortable surroundings. Although the place is quite bijou, there is absolutely no sacrifice of quality, it does have good bathroom facilities, as you can see and is within easy reach of the road, although it does sometimes get a little noisy, and rocks a little when the heavies roll past.

OK, I'm no fool, though there are those would argue that point, but the decider for me, the final point which caused me to choose this place is their speciality The Belly Buster.

Here's a simple one.

The one with which I've decided to treat My Lady's palate have a much more satisfying filling:-

Large cob (Oven Bottom)

Fried Tomato,

Fried Bacon (2 rashers)

Fried Egg (2)

Fried Sausage (2)

Fried Onion (large spoon)

Fried Mushroom (2 large)

Fried Black Pudding (1 piece)

garnished with a piece of lettuce and all the tomato ketchup and brown sauce you want.

Pudding will be Boiled Spotted Dick with Custard.

There's a cup of tea included, but I'm not too sure about that after a recent incident when someone spilled their cup on the floor. This was wiped up and the floor became cleaner than ever before.

I know it would seem to cost a lot but it really is a bargain - something like £3 each ($6), so you see, it will be quite an expensive evening for me, but, as I said, it IS a special occasion - and She's worth every penny.

However - HERE IS MY PROBLEM - do we dress up, or should we go casual?

Pompous Ass

"Pompous Ass", or "How to Carry a Chip on Your Shoulder the Size of Tree Trunk", or "I'm a Working Man And I Want Everyone to Know About It" - any one of these would serve as a title for this little essay.

If you have read the previous entry, you will have learned that we (the Boat Club and other interested parties) were concerned to rescue the Chesterfield Canal from the derelict state into which it had been allowed to fall, with a little help from its custodians.

It would be about 1968, if my memory serves me correctly, when we arranged a boat rally at Worksop, the purpose being to highlight the potential gains from restoring the canal to full use. There were two aspects to be considered, repairing and restoring the canal and its works to navigation standard and its environs to public use and awareness.

To this end, some fifteen boats fought the weed and the shallows to make it up there from their base some fifteen miles downstream. The idea was that they would show themselves and then return that same weekend, as there were no safe moorings up at that end at that time.

We invited everyone we could think of who might have some influence, or who might be persuaded to recognise the potential of this beautiful waterway as an amenity for the area.

Included in the invited dignatories were the local member of parliament Joe Ashton and as many of the local Councillors as would accept the invitation. Each of the invitees was to be given a ride on a boat to show them the view of their town from the waterway, something which most of them had never experienced, and in any case, the view, taken in at a leisurely pace from the water level, was very good.

Of course, Joe Ashton began spouting off about what Parliament had done etc etc, but was quite oblivious to the fact that this was what we wanted to reverse! I happened to be standing on the towpath, chatting with a councillor who I knew from a kid, but who I didn't know to be a councillor, when another chap came bustling up. There was another chap there too, each with their lady wives.

This newcomer, middle aged, I guess, stomped up to us, greeted the chap I knew, his fellow Councillor and immediately said "I don't know about you, Derek, but I don't reckon much to this bloody do. Why should we put 'our' money into t'canal so's all these bloody rich folk can go swanning up and down in their bloody gin palaces!"

That was a good start, I thought. How could we influence someone like that, with a chip on his shoulder the size of the Major Oak, who regarded the Council's income as 'theirs'?

Our Chairman, close by, chatting to another Councillor, overheard this outburst. The volunteers had already been selected for the boat trips, so a small change was made before the introductions were made, and the various hosts invited their guests aboard their individual pride and joy.

The one with the gob, the man with the huge chip on his shoulder, the one with preconceived notions, was placed with 'Our Frank', who was not only a character, a wonderful friend to have and was a coal miner. A big man, both in stature and in character, Frank spoke of shovels, not agricultural implements. Farmyard manure always went by its more common name. He'd been rapidly made aware of the fellow's attitude.

Frank told us later what had happened, so what comes now is a reconstruction, based on what he told me.

Frank's boat was a small cabin cruiser, quite a few years old, well worn with scratches in the plastic and with peeling varnish, all in the process of being done up as time and money allowed.

"Hey up!" said Frank, " come wi' me fer a ride on my little gin palace, only I don't drink gin, but tha c'n 'ave a pint o' bitter wi' me!"

I have to say that Frank didn't normally talk quite so broadly; this was an act that he put on whenever the need arose. But, quite relevant to the story, he was a coal miner who worked down one of the Doncaster pits.

He explained to the man that he wasn't 'rich', no more than the Councillor was, and that he had exactly the same job down the pit as him. He chose to spend his money on a boat on which to spend his leisure, as the Councillor had a caravan for his.

As they cruised, Frank made a point of telling the man what each of the members did for a living - "He's a shopkeeper" ,"she's a nurse", "he works in an office", "he's a doctor" and 'him there works for t'Council". All of them ordinary working folk, and not the rich folk that the man so obviously hated.

Frank must have done a very good conversion job, because a couple of years later, I was at a meeting, attended by that self same gentleman, to find that he was adamantly on 'our side', speaking forcefully and vociferously for the need for leisure facilities, and how, in the canal, we had a ready made facility, sadly in need of help!

That Guilty Feeling

Many years ago, I was a member of a canal cruising club, based on our local canal. The club had begun life as a restoration club, since the canal, built in 1777 to help fuel the Industrial Revolution, had been allowed to become derelict - indeed, it had actually been pushed into that state by the very people into whose care it had fallen (the Government).

The club had campaigned for its restoration and we actually, the members, that is, had conducted many working parties to help towards that end. The local Inspector whose responsibility it was, was quite supportive to us and gradually, the canal became more easily navigable, if with difficulty, as far as Worksop.

Although the canal had been built as an industrial artery, to carry coal, lead, iron, bricks etc, it also served to carry agricultural products, and passing through beautiful agricultural land, received a large amount of water run off from the fields around.

This meant that it was badly silted and full of the very fertiliser the farmers spread on their land, feeding the weed. Because it was little used, the water was clear enough for a special type of weed to flourish - blanket weed. This is a photo-synthetic creature which grows rapidly withy sunshine, but reduces if denied that very commodity. One way of assuring this denial is by using the water, by stirring up the silt and clouding the water.

This also denies the fish any easy sight of their food, so that a fisherman casting his bait, stands a better chance of catching one of the blighters. This works because the fish normally graze, and when the water is stirred up by the propellor of a boat, they have all sorts of food stirred up for them, including those juicy bits fastened to hooks on lines.

We had arranged a cruise from our base at Clayworth, up to Worksop, no easy journey due to the state of the locks and the weed problem, but come the day, some four narrowboats made it, leaving the cruisers by the wayside, beaten by the heavy weed.

The point of the cruise was made, i.e., to draw attention to the canal as an amenity, and the owners and friends spent a nice evening in the Canal tavern, situated in the terrace of houses by the canalside.

About two weeks later, I came home from work, arriving about three o'clock, for Mam to tell me that I'd had a visitor from the Telecommications people. She'd explained that I was at work and the chap said he'd call again the next day, a little later.

Mam, being the person she was, bought up to hospitality, arranged for the chap to eat with me when I came home, so, when I came home the next day, there was a large green van parked outside the flat, covered in antennae, with the words "Post Office Telecommunications" emblazoned along the sides.

The chap introduced himself and explained that I wasn't in trouble, but that there was potentially a little problem which he believed to be in my power to alleviate. He told me that they'd received complaints that boats on the canal had been interferring with the television signal in the terraced homes alongside the canal, and since I was registered as Secretary, could I do anything about it?

Of course, I explained the set up and, since the compaints were centred on the recent weekend's visit, how it was not possible the boats to which we had any connection could be responsible. All four of those boats were diesel powered - no electric sparks to the engines.

Naturally, I told him that we, as a club, were not responsible for all the boats on the canal, but as a matter of course, I'd advise all our members using outboard motors to have their electrics checked over.

He was happy with this, and we spent the rest of the afternoon discussing this and that, until he said thanks for the lunch and the chat and set off in his van to drive back to Lincoln, for that is where he was from.

The next morning at 5 0'clock, I set out to work, calling at the little newsagent/sub Post Office (opposite the flats where I lived) for my cigs and newspaper, to be collared by the proprietor, who appeared quited excited.

"Are you in trouble with the telly people?"

"No!"

"Well, you had the tv detector van standing outside your flat all yesterday afternoon, and it was there the day before as well!"

"No, it wasn't." I told him the story briefly, and he told me not to tell anyone else or I'd be skinned alive.

He said that lots of people took the van to be the tv detector van and that they were checking on licenses, so he had a run on tv licenses at the post office. He went on to tell me that he'd sold more tv licenses in one day than he'd sold in the three years he'd run the shop!

That's why people were avoiding me! They must have thought I was in cahoots with them!!!!

'Every little helps' - so they say!

Now that I'm well and truly lodged in my 'Grumpy Old Man' mode, I'll tell the tale of my this morning's visit to Tesco, that self styled paragon of retail shopping, the giant which likes to have people believe they're on the customers' side.

We have their loyalty card, but since most of our shopping there is for petrol, we don't accumulate much. We find their prices are much higher than another supermarket chain and since the latter is more convenient of access and they carry all we need, we use them.

This is immaterial, really, since we use Tesco for our convenience, and they had sent us a voucher to the value of points earned, ie £7.50. By agreement, this is as good as money between Tesco and us, exchangeable for goods at their store.

So I visited there this morning because they give out free yeast, fresh baker's yeast, that is. I want to bake some bread, d'you see, and have almost run out of flour. I thought I'd give what is called 'strong bread flour' a try to see if there is any difference between that and the cheap flour I use. I therefore selected two bags of their own brand of strong flour.

We also needed some dishwasher tablets and some descaler tablets for the washing machine.

I collected some yeast (3oz) which will deliver a nice amount of fresh baked bread, then went to the checkout.

No go. The voucher has to be spent in toto, so I was sent back to find something else to make up the value. The only item I could find that we needed and that my arithmatic told me came close was another box of dishwasher tablets. My arithmatic told me that this was 7p short.

The till coughed up the total of £7.43 but the voucher was for £7.50 so it wouldn't accept it. The lady said 'we can't give you change'. I replied that I didn't want change. They could keep it.

Oh no, no way. The supervisor was called and she said the same thing - 'we can't give change' I repeated that I didn't want change and if they couldn't put the measly seven pennies back to the loyalty account, then write it off.

Oh no, we can't do that - it's got to be for the same amount. If you spend more, then you pay the extra. Since I was coin free, I told them to stuff the goods back on the shelf and I left the store with my packet of yeast and a sour feeling towards this pillar of the community.

I'll try my damnedest to make sure the bread comes out all right, but we'll have to wait and see.

Every little helps! - yeah, sure.

Greetings to everyone!

The Crazy things they do!

Number 3 Son is learning to be a motor mechanic, specialising in Land Rovers, and is doing rather well, showing an aptitude for the trade. Not only is he gaining skills and knowledge in the workings of these wonderful workhorses, but he is gaining experience of normal cars too.

At the age of 17 years, he's making a very good start and accepts that he ain't going to pull up any trees yet, he has a lot to learn, but he's made a very good start. Not only is he learning a trade, but he is learning to integrate into life proper, in that he is socialising with people that he probably would never have met had he not entered this business.

He's a likeable lad, a good mixer, and now that he's left his youthful troubles behind, he's becoming a credit to his Mam and Dad - us. His Boss is a member of a club which consists of 'crazy people' (their words, not mine) who take their vehicles away from the safety and comfort of streets and roads in order to scare themselves to death racing round the countryside in them.

He, No.3, that is, was invited by these people to come along with them and to navigate for one of the members. Naturally, he was delighted. We, his Mum and Me, were delighted that he'd been invited, but were full of trepidation for his safety.

We needn't have worried - they only rolled over once! Both he and the driver were properly strapped in, so that when they left the track at speed and rolled over, they were both left hanging upside down in their harnesses, protected from harm by the roll cage. The car was put back onto its wheels and off they went, to complete their lap. Did this put him off from doing it again? Not on your Nelly - he was adamant that he'd never before had so much fun!

That is when I began to fear for his mental health.

Both his Mum and I had seen these vehicles at the workshop and to be honest, I was impressed. I gained the impression that the owners had a sort of love/hate relationship with their vehicles, which were not standard - they were specially built or modified.

Only yesterday did I overhear a comment which probably encapsulates it all - when asked if he would be appearing at a forthcoming event, one man replied "Maybe - money permitting!" - note, not time, not weather, not inclination - money. Another man told me that the sport consisted of "Ten minutes driving - hours mending!"

But I'm getting ahead of myself.

A quiet weekend at Manby

On May Bank Holiday weekend, they met at Manby in Lincolnshire, the site of an RAF flying instructor college, converted into an off road events area, where they race motor bikes, 4x4, motocross - all the disciplines of crazy motorsport. We were invited along to watch, an invitation gladly taken up by Herself, and it goes without saying that I was invited too.

This is the track layout with the spaghetti bundle that is the playground, where the various clubs set out their track of choice for their event.

Now, as I said, the cars are either modified off-roaders (Landys, Toyotas, Mitzies, Subaru etc) and their owners spend a great amount of cash on them. Good luck to them, I say, but to be honest, I can think of better ways of casting money to the wind (sailing for example).

When we arrived on the Sunday morning, one of the team, Dean, had his car on his lorry, all nicely strapped down for travelling. It was a modified Range Rover and he was sick as a sea going parrot - he was out of it! The routine is that each car goes out on the track and covers the 5.1 mile course, racing against the clock, all times aggregated to produce winners and losers. Today, this fella came into the latter group.

He went out just the once, rolled it and broke it, without even completing the first lap! Apparently, he decided to go out alone after being told to take The Lad with him to show him the route, but he went solo and paid for his decision -after all his preparation and the expense of getting there, he broke it on his first time out. The roll cage got bent, and the Organisers, being very strict, would not allow him back on the track as his safety was compromised. Very wise. I wouldn't like to think of a two ton vehicle rolling on me without some form of protection!

This is the vehicle, the tail end of which you see on the truck. The other one right next to it on the ground, a very special motor, is worth a mention.

This one, is specially built by Steve, the owner/driver, fitted with a rather large BMW engine and is fast, very fast. When I asked about the engine sizes in these things (simply because they mentioned Class of Vehicle) I was told that the sizes were big, bigger and "watch that ffff -fuel gauge go beserk!).

As we arrived, Steve came back into the paddock with No.3 Son seated alongside him, a huge grin on his face. This time, they'd only damaged the exhaust which was soon mended by the simple proceedure of wrapping a baked bean tin around the tear in the pipe.

Next time around was much worse. The clutch stripped and had shattered the thrust bearing, throwing bits of metal around the bell housing. A small piece had got between the flywheel and the engine casing, destrying an electronic sensor, which the good people at BMW decided was necessary to control the engine function. It seems that, if the engine doesn't get a message from this sensor to say that all is well with the flywheel, it stops dead - which is what it did out on the track, requiring them to be towed in.

Unfortunately, Steve did not have a replacement thrust bearing, but he did have a sensor so it looked as if that had put the kybosh on his racing when he had only a few more rounds to do to qualify. Having taken a full time penalty for the breakdown, it was either reire or repair - but how?

By the time they had stripped the gearbox and clutch and had decided to repair it, it looked to be too late, it was Sunday after all. Come evening, they hopped into a car and went looking for a garage in the hopes of finding a garage open that had spares, but no luck, but, in Louth, they did come across an industrial estate and a skip full of engine scrap. A spell of skip diving produced a complete clutch that might fit the bill, if only to present them with a thrust bearing. It was not of the correct size, so they set to and reamed out the inner bore with the tools that they had, and made it fit! The new sensor was fitted, the assembly reassembled and next morning a joyful Steve went out, completed his runs and finished 3rd in Class!

Now, Colin, in his modified hill racer, had much more fun (his words, not mine), when he broke his propshaft and had to mend it, his steering rack and had to mend it and then his swinging arm went up the Swannee. When he returned to the paddock, one his competitors immediately offered the use of his welding tackle and portable workshop, where, together, they fixed it. Colin went on to come 4th in his class.

This is Colin's motor, and my Dear Lady Wife wants one!


The chap who helped Colin with the welding on his motor was another who's parrot was sick more than a little. His machine, I understand, is valued at £30000 ($60000) and he'd broken it. Actually, he hadn't - the track had, but the effect was the same, he was going nowhere except home.

It seems that the rear differential had broken in spectacular fashion. He'd worked on the car, replacing bits here and there, seeking mechanical perfection, and had purchased a specially made set of gears from America - 'indestructible', it was claimed. Sure they were - if you believe the advertisements!

They opened up the diff box and were showered by the gear teeth which had sheered off. So, now they have the small problem of getting replacements and may face some sort of argument as this was the first time they had been fitted and put to work.

Oh, did I mention that these gears cost the modest amount of six thousand pounds?



Oh, I understand Man's obsession with Big Boys' Toys and all that, but wow - obsession is the word!

But they do have fun, they all assured me, much more fun than going to Blackpool on a wet weekend, but to me, there are limits!





Oh, as a last thing, just to show how much fun there is, here's a sign that sits in Colin's motor for the benefit of passengers.




Nuff Said!

Is it safe to drive?

I've been driving now since 1964 when I passed my test in a little Austin A35. Actually, I'd been driving for quite some time before then, as I rode scooters, mopeds and motor bikes on my provisional licenses, but it was 1964 when I actually passed my test and gained my full motor car license.

I used to enjoy driving, but gradually, over the years, conditions on the roads have worsened, so that there seem to be far more idiots behind the wheel than should be allowed.

I still enjoy the freedom that driving brings; I can get into the car and go literally where I want, when I want, without being dependent on others.

Over the past few weeks, however, I've been involved in several incidents which give me cause to wonder if 'now' is not the time to give it up. OK, my reflexes and experience, coupled with common sense and anticipation, were enough to prevent any deeper involvement, but had the timing of these 'incidents' been different, then the outcomes could well have been nasty.

For instance. I'm on the major road, coming up to a junction with a minor road on my right. I shape up in the middle of the road, on the refuge lines, signalling to turn right. I'm waiting for a couple of cars coming towards me on my road to clear, before turning. Just as I engage gear and am letting in the clutch, a dozy cow of a driver shoots out from the side road on my right and crosses my nose. I was able to declutch and brake in time to avoid her smashing into my door.

Another one. 'T' junction in town, controlled by lights. The main street crosses the 'T' and is two way, the leg of the 'T', where I am, is one way, so the traffic is split for left and right turning - common sense really, and it is extremely well marked out. I'm standing at the red light, waiting to turn right. To my left is a Vauxhall, waiting to turn left, or so it would seem.

I discounted this as I moved forward on green, turning right - mistake. The stupid idiot in the Vauxhall turned RIGHT, speeding and cutting across me, narrowly missing the traffic island on which a traffic light is installed!

And again. I was driving along one of the longer streets when I saw a white van coming towards me, slowly. It would seem that that the driver was looking out for a particular street. He was indeed looking, for he found it and turned into it it - straight across my nose! Only instinct and God prevented that potential ooh nasty!

Then yesterday, something very similar. I was in Clowne, on the main Sheffield to Newark road and was moving down a hill where there is a cross roads, uncontrolled. There was a car standing on the opposite side of the main road, waiting to turn right (my left), indicator flashing. All right and proper. There was also a car on the side road, waiting to enter the main, where I was.

The man in the car in front of me flashed his headlights at the car on the side road. The sloppy, silly female type person took that as an order! She drove out - across my nose and turned right, to where I'd come from. Again, only instinct applied my brakes in time. The lady was white as a sheet as she passed me, shoulder to shoulder. The man in the other car merely shrugged his shoulders!

This 'flashing' business ought to be stopped, it really did. It ain't a signal, it ain't an instruction - all it bloody well means is that your headlamp flasher switch and headlights are working!!!!!!!!

So. I'm beginning to wonder if it isn't time for me to pack it in and let the others drive me around. I really am, for I know my reactions are slower now than they used to was and it frightens me to think what might happen in any future situation - similar to those, perhaps, but where the timings and positions are slightly different.

Is it time to panic, please?

A few days ago, I went to see the doc for me annual checkup, where he discovered me blood pressure was 'up' which means that I have to go back for a retest at the end of the month.

I visited the hospital, which I detest with a passion, to see Dracula's Daughter, who took an armfull of blood. I rang a few days later to be told that everything was OK, the results were marked 'no further action' required, which means that me medicines stay as they are.

Yesterday, I received a letter from Queen's Medical Centre at Nottingham, signed by Professor somebody or other. I think my blood pressure rose a little as I thought, "bloody hell, what do they want with me? Is there something they haven't told me". I've never had any dealings with these people, and I know they deal with the 'big stuff".

It seems that I fall into the screening group for colon cancer!!!!!

They are sending me a test kit over the next few days, with instructions what to do with it.

My blood pressure went up a little more on reading the letter. What the hell does this mean?

Is it genuinely a 'general screening programme' or is it cover for a more specific check up, because they think they ought to take a closer look at me? Is there something that they have found in me that warrants closer inspection?

The only problem I've had with me 'rear end' is that I'm prone to peri-anal abscesses, so I'm wondering if all this is connected?

I guess I'll have to cooperate and wait for the results, but I ain't very happy at the moment!

Credit where it's due.

On Monday evening, just before 4 o'clock to be precise, my stairlift went kaput, stopped, decided it had had enough and wouldn't go any further.

The thing was only installed last June, so it's still in warrantly, but that ain't my problem anyway.

I rang A1 Housing repairs dept who, it turned out, were having computer problems. Apparently, the machine was refusing to cooperate with the operators. I reported my problem and, after the third attempt, the lady said she had recorded my complaint and would contact Trent Valley Lifts, who have the contract to repair and maintain this sort of equipment for the Council.

I expected to be without my lift at least until sometime next day, but in any case, I had to haul myself very slowly upstairs, one step at a time to get to the toilet. There was no way that I was going to come down again, only to go back up very shortly, so I stayed upstairs, ready for my medicines etc. My young daughter carried my bits of stuff, book, glass of orange etc. I was absolutely exhausted by the time I got upstairs.

At 6.30, the phone rang - it was "John the lift man - is it OK for me to come now to fix your lift?"

He came from his last job at the other side of Mansfield to get here, but he arrived just after seven. He listened to our explanation and suggested that it might be the circuit board that was gone. He opened it up (it was sitting at the top of the stairs, so he had an uncomfortable working position) and checked the internal fuse. It had blown.

He went out to the van to fetch a packet of new ones, inserted one, tried the thing - and that fuse blew too, this time tripping the safety trip at the distribution box downstairs (but not the safety cut-out in the feeder box on the wall by the lift!!!). This confirmed that it was indeed the circuit board that had gone.

He 'just happened to have another one" on the van, which he fetched. This, he told me, was for another job, which would now have to wait a bit longer!

He fitted the new circuit board, tested the lift and it worked again. He drove it down and up the stairs, used the remote controls, confirmed it all worked, and left.

From me reporting the fault to the lift being fully functional again - three and a half hours!

Very well done, very good indeed!

And some people believe it!

I had to go see the do yesterday for my annual checkup for the thyroid and cholesterol and wotnot. Unfortunately, the young lady receptionist did what I often do, and I suspect, many others do - made a phantom 'click on the computer screen.

I wasn't signed in, so the doc didn't know I was there, so didn't bother calling me. After I realised that he wasn't merely running late and that something was amiss (quick on the uptake, I am) I checked at reception.

I was in to see the doc withing two minutes, after an hour's wait.

Anyway, I had chance to look at the magazines - a right selection they had too ( I see that they've put a man on the moon, by the way ) - and came across this little snippet.

A woman wrote in to the horoscope page of this magazine, "I have the idea of selling up here, moving to Egypt and opening a souvenir stall. Will it work?"

Reply - "I have consulted my crystal ball in conjunction with your star sign and it all looks good for you. It will be a success!"

I wonder - does anyone actually believe that crap?

Why do they do it?

I've never been a great fan of what has been called 'popular' or 'pop' music although, I must admit, out of perhaps a hundred songs or pieces put out, there might be just one which catches my ear.

Mainly the stuff comes in two main groups - tolerable and stomach turning.

Nowadays, I listen to BBC Radio 2 of a morning and sometimes during the day. I have certain programmes where the presenter gives me something worth listening to. Unfortunately, the music they play tends to be perhaps 50 percent that I ignore, 25 percent that I can hear without distress, 20 percent that irritate and the rest that make me want o reach for the off switch, some of the latter group that actually do produce that very reaction.

The saving grace for these programs is the presenter and their close interaction with their listeners, banter, stories, funnies, jokes and so on. These are the only things worth listening to.

Now, the BBC has something called a 'playlist' where someone somewhere decides what shall be played when and where. There is a policy that whenever some screeching pop diva or pop kid whose balls haven't dropped yet, comes out with a new record, then it has to be played, and played, and played, and played, and played.

This generally means that I get to hear it each time I listen to my favourite presenters. One day not so long ago, I heard one bloody song, Britney? five times in one day!

What do I do now when they come on? I switch off.

How can I get them to understand that if I - and there must be many many more like me - wanted to hear this particular song over and over again, and if I was so keen on it, I'd willingly go out and buy the bloody thing?

She did it again!!!!

She did, honestly - as truly as I'm sat sitting here at the keyboard, I tell you that the dozy cow went and did again!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

What? What did she do? you ask.

Last week, when I'd dropped the yougest lad off at what passes for a bus station here, I drove through centre of town, down a one-way street, joining the next road at 'T' junction, controlled by traffic lights.

So, I'm sitting in the right hand lane (those of you who drive on the wrong side will have to stand on your head or something to follow this), waiting for the lights to turn green. In the left hand lane, the lane for turning left, was a grey Vauxhall. I didn't notice the driver at the time - I mean, you don't you you? You check around you, discount what doesn't matter and allow for what does.

So, according to the rule of law and common sense, I would be turning right - that's why I was in the right hand lane. The grey Vauxhall, followed by a bus, would be turning left.

Now, as you turn right, you have to watch your turn, as there is an island in the road, carrying a pedestrian refuge and a traffic light, so when the lights turned green, I started off, discounting the car to my left and headed for the far side of the island to my right.

Mistake! Big mistake. This particular dozy cow, for that is who I saw directly in front of me now, was turning right, across my nose, heading for the same road space!

Of course, I stopped quickly.

I thought perhaps she may have been a foreigner, not accustomed to out traffic rules, or she wasn't bothered - or perhaps she was simply a bloody stupid lousy driver.

That was at the beginning of last week, and I've transited that junction 4 more times, which numbers to add to the many thousands over the years. What with my memory not being too good, I temporarily forgot the incident - until this morning when the self same woman in the self same Vauxhall, pulled the self same dozy stupid trick!

I wonder how many times will she do it before someone a little more agressive than me will simply keep going?

No Borg today

It seems that I won't be assimilated today as there is a slight hitch on the Borg Mother Ship. It seems that the particular bit of technology needed to carry out the job is dead as a dodo.

Boy Child tells me that he hasn't used it for so long that the battery is kernackered. Ah well, I was quite looking forward to that. Sometime in the future, I guess.

Surprised Herself last night. Gave her quite a shock, as a matter of fact. There she was, laid beside me, reading her book, when I said "Hey Lass, I can breathe!" Quick as a flash, she was out of bed and over to my dressing table and back to me with my salbutamol inhaler in hand!

Good girl, except that she'd not heard properly, had she?

For most of the day, I'd had a gorilla sitting on my chest, so, when I crawled off to me pit, I took me painkillers and other stuff, plus the inhalers - the preventers - the old one (Combivent) and the new one (I can't remember the name, but it dispenses a puff of powder by means of a fan when I inhale).

This latter seems to be doing wonders, but the effect is short lasting. I laid down, trying to reduce the need to breathe (one gets used to this breathing lark after nearly 70 years) and must have dropped off as the pain killers kicked in.

That's when I woke with the revellation that I could breathe unhindered!!

This was not to last long, as I awoke again at about 1.30. The gorilla had returned and was suffocating me again. I helped myself to a couple of puffs and laid back down, but the combination of the shit on my chest and the salbutamol trying to get rid of it, I wasn't very happy.

At least, I was able to take in enough air to permit a good, healthy, choking coughing fit!

I laid awake, debating whether to ask the Dear Lady Wife to make the call again, so that the nice man in the nice green suit could come along and force feed me with some of that magic vapour, when I sudden cough erupted, and I managed to breathe.

Then it was time to get up, so me normal tablets and me puffers, including the magic powder. As I type, I'm not feeling as dizzy as before, but just a little light headed - and we got cold, wet, gusty winds outside!!!!!

What's it all about?

Ok, so one of my dear friends on the 'interweb' thing, miles and miles away in the safety of another continent, gave me the monicker of "The Old Goat" and even sent me a little statue thingie of 'Myself' which sits on one of the computer speakers as a constant reminder of her regard for me.

The name 'Old Fart' is one that is more and more being used in reference to my little mishaps, none intentional, but hilarious to the observers - including my dear, devoted family, who find great fun in them.

Now, these monickers I can accept, I can live with, but recently I have discovered a further metamorphosis in myself. I have always considered myself to be a reasonable sort of chap, able to see and accept others' faults and actions, always able to 'let things be'.

Not any more, it seems, as I discovered, quite by accident, that I have become a 'Grumpy Old Man'. I have to admit in all conscience that I haven't noticed this transformation. When did it happen? When? Was it a slow, chrysalis thing or was it a Eureka moment?

I don't honestly know, but I think I might grow to enjoy the status and recognition it brings. "Grumpy Old Man" - now, that sounds nice.

So, that's what this blog is all about - my daily, or if not daily, periodic grouses at life around me, those little happenings that simply irritate or totally piss me off. If I ever master the means of posting pics, then there will be some of those too.

So, where does the blog title come from?

Well, I have a mobile phone which I carry in my trouser pocket at all waking hours. It is there for emergency only, so that, on the rare occasions when I'm allowed out on my own, I am able to call for help should it be needed. Also, 'they' - that is the group of self appointed 'minders' who carry on their daily lives as part of my family - may contact me to make sure that I've not wandered too far off the intended track and that I can at least remember where I live.

If I don't answer quickly enough when they ring, they tend to panic, especially My Darling Bride. I mean, if I can't hear it , then how the heck am I supposed to answer the thing? We tried setting the phone on vibrate so that I would feel it against my thigh, but I've discovered that I do not always feel the vibrations - it depends on how the legs are behaving, or perhaps if what passes for a brain up there is not too preoccupied elsewhere.

I cannot always hear the ring tone against a backgroud of other sounds so - I'm to be assimilated into the Borg! The Boychild is setting me up with one of those wireless earphone things that hangs onto the ear with an earphone. I heard the name Bluetooth somewhere in this context - does that mean the thing bites? Hopefully, when it rings, it will shout directly down my ear without having to compete with all those other sounds. I do hope it's simple to operate.

So, having caught sight of that girl on Star Trek going by the name of Seven of Nine, I thought that, if I'm to be assimilated by the Borg, then I shall be a spare unit, not nearly good enough for their purposes, hence Nine and a Half of Nine.

Keep watching.