Just when I thought that the entire movie
industry had run out of ideas, I am proved totally wrong. It would seem there
are plans afoot to make a film the likes of which the world has hitherto only
dreamed about. “Rentaghost
– the Movie”.
As Mr Claypole, the MacWitch and the
Pantomime Horse head to the Silver Screen, Hubert Davenport spins in his grave,
and I for one won’t be queuing up at the cinema.
I couldn’t believe my ears when I heard the
news this morning. It would seem that the energy companies are making eight times the
profit
from my payments to them that they were making only a few months ago.
Apparently from the £1300 I pay them every year, £125 of that is profit. The
chap on the radio was shocked about this. So was I, but for completely the
opposite reason. He was horrified about how much profit they were making. I was
amazed how little they were making.
Perhaps working in the public sector has left
me somewhat naïve, but back when I worked in the private sector, (long, long ago), the boss’s tenet of faith
was that for the price he paid to buy three of anything, he would sell one. He
worked on a three hundred per cent markup. I honestly assumed that of the £1300
I pay to the energy company each year, about eight or nine hundred quid would
have gone into their pocket.
One lives and learns.
I was also shocked about the news concerning
the cabinet office
minister Oliver Letwin. Apparently he’s accused of disposing of some of his
paperwork when he’s finished with it. The poor bugger is being crucified in the
press because he threw away various dull trivial official papers. Bearing in
mind how the press have just hounded the Defence Secretary out of office, I’m left wondering
why anyone would aspire for public office.
Work was quiet. So quiet that one of the
ladies was able to slip out to see her nephew’s school play. The lad had been
in the school’s drama club for some time, and had been asking his aunt to come
see the play for weeks. The play was “The
Gruffalo”, and the lad in question turned out to be playing the part of a
rock.
Personally I’d rather watch the rock rather
than Rentaghost – The Next Generation.
There weren’t many people in the slow lane at
swimming this evening. Just five of us: me, ‘er indoors TM, two orcas and a young Gurkha. The young
Gurkha had a novel swimming technique: he would swim an entire length without
taking a single breath on the way, then gasp like a beached fish at the end of
the length, before repeating the process.
Mind you, I can’t really criticise. As a
child I was an accomplished swimmer. Nowadays my technique isn’t what it was. I
know (in principle) what to do about
arms, legs and breathing. But in practice I find I can only organise any two of
those three. Seeing how I tend to make breathing the priority, my propulsion in
the swimming pool isn’t that which it might be.
But I did the obligatory twenty lengths,
which passed pleasantly enough (apart
from ‘er indoors TM
drowning on the sixteenth length).
And then home for a curry. You know you’re
seriously into “diet mode” when the
curry comes with a bottle of WeightWatcher’s wine…
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