Yesterday I whinged about
a bad night's sleep. I slept marginally better last night; waking a
little while before the alarm having had a rather vivid dream. I had
become a native American (red indian) named "Talking
Bullsheet" and was on a mission for the Ministry of Defence
having been sent to northern France to rescue Mrs Bridges and the
cast of the 1970s TV show "Upstairs Downstairs" from
what was apparently a war zone.
What was that all about?
"Furry Face TM"
then had much of my toast; I scoffed my tablets, and then I watched
my dog chase sparrows out of the garden. For a dog who could barely
move just three weeks ago he's a lot more sprightly than he was. He's
even jumping on and off of the sofa without a thought. He doesn't
seem to realise he'd supposed to be resting.
Off to work. As I drove
the new leader of the Scottish Nationalists was mentioned on the
morning news. Having been told quite convincingly by the Scottish
electorate that the Scots aren't interested in her isolationist
policies she's now trying to say how unfair a referendum in which all
of the British decide en-masse about continued
membership of the European Union would be.
How does that work? She
wants Scotland out of the UK but to remain in the larger political
union.? In any event she's been handed her arse on a plate by the
electorate. You have to admire the tenacity of the defeated
politician.
There was also talk about
the recently released Government files dated from thirty years ago
when the threat of a nuclear attack on the UK was a rather
serious concern. It would seem that the government of the time
had plans for the post-apocalyptic UK; with a decimated population
and a overly-stretched police force, martial law would have been
declared, and it was suggested that unfeeling psychopaths could be
enlisted to ruthlessly enforce law and order.
Fortunately that plan
never came to fruition, but it was plans like this which make me
think I was right to have been a member of the Campaign for Nuclear
Disarmament when these crackpot schemes were being hatched.
As I drove up the A28 I
was dangerously overtaken by a twat in a green Transit van. As this
chap sped up the wrong side of the road at the Wye crossroads cars
swerved in all directions to avoid him. Six miles later I caught up
with him at the Chartham junction where (as soon as opportunity
arose) the chap took a short cut by going the wrong way up a
one-way street.
I wish I could remember
his registration number... mind you from the way he drove I can't
help but wonder if he was one of the psychopaths who, had the bombs
dropped, would be laying down the law.
Work was work; I got to
scoff some home-make cake and then at lunch time I blew my saxophone.
After work I went for the weekly sax lesson. It's rather apparent
that for all I'm not that good at reading sheet music, I do it better
than trying to work out a tune from letters written in a sequence. "D
D# C B A B C# B" doesn't give you any idea of the rhythm; if I
say that "D D# C B A B C# B" is the introduction sax solo
to Baker Street you get to understand my problem. I hope...
Home for a quick bite to
eat, and then I turned down the chance of a meal out with my
workmates because "Access all Areas" were gigging at
the Windmill. Being on the tablets (and consequently off the beer)
I was on driving duty and wouldn't have time to have a meal out and
do all the driving in time for the gig. Which was a shame, but in
keeping with the day's musical theme I was glad I got to see the band
play.
I generally don't like
live music, but that's because usually it's not done very well.
Tonight's show was rather good. Or perhaps I'm just the teensiest bit
biased. Good music, good company....
...the evening was only
marred by seven quid for a bottle of cider and a glass of pop finally
served up when the barmaid could be bothered.
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