Over my morning toast I looked at Facebook and saw that there was a
bit of a squabble happening on one of the geocaching pages on Facebook…
Once you’ve found a
plastic pot under a rock you have to log the fact on-line. The vast majority of
people *never* read these logs except
when looking for a hint when they can’t find a cache. But there is a rather
vocal small minority who seem to want a little essay to be written which is
gushing with praise for the plastic pot and admiration for the person who hid
the thing under a rock. This minority is getting rather nasty in what it is
posting on-line, and this morning had made a rather nasty personal attack on
people who contribute a *lot* to the
hobby.
Do these people *really* think that their plastic pots
are so that marvelous that when I get home having found fifty such pots (like I did yesterday) that all of them were
memorable enough for me to wax lyrical about each and every one? The game is a
treasure hunt, not an exercise in creative writing. If people want to read fine
literature, that‘s what libraries are for. Do we *really* hide these pots just
so’s we can read about just how marvelous we all are? As a C.O. with dozens of
active caches I don’t read any of the “Found
It” logs.
Bearing in mind that
the park run would be in full flow I delayed walking the hounds. Instead I
mowed the lawn and then spent a few minutes bashing the mud from our walking boots
before we went out.
We then had a good walk
round the park. Most of the joggers had finished, but there were still one or
two there. One of these exemplified why I don’t like the runners. He came past
me without incident, but then started shouting at the two dog walkers fifty
yards ahead of me. When he got close to them he stopped, and I could see there
was a row going on. As I got close I could hear what was going on, and I went
and stood next to the dog walkers to show my support. As did my two hounds.
It turned out that the
jogger had got the hump because he didn’t have enough room to get past the dog
walkers. I had been on the grass as he’d run past me; I’d done the right thing
(in his eyes). It seems that joggers
need the entire tarmac path to themselves, and the etiquette is that dog
walkers should walk off of the tarmac and into the mud to let the runners pass
(or so we were told).
The dog-walker with the
staffie (who hadn’t walked into the mud)
told the jogger to f… off; I shook his hand (the bloke with the staffie, not the jogger), and all was well.
Once home I had a
squabble with not-so-nice-next-door. (The side that doesn’t do noisy sex).
I say “squabble”; she didn’t say a word. With a
little time before the forecast rain I’d decided to spend a little time cutting
back the jungle which flows from her garden over the fence into mine. As I
trimmed it back she came up, stood and glared over the fence at me. I carried
on pruning. After five minutes of her continued black looks I explained to her
that I didn’t want any of her stuff in my garden; not a single leaf. She looked
at me like I was the sh*t on her shoe, and walked off.
With the garden pruned
I decided to prune my wardrobe. The thing had got so full that I couldn’t close
it. So I had a chuck-out of stuff I haven’t worn for years. I got rid of ten
pairs of “normal” shorts, fifteen
work shirts (the armpits of which had
become decidedly crusty) and twenty T-shirts. The wardrobe now closes.
I then carried on
working on planning some geo-walks.
As I did all of this "er indoors TM" had stripped the
kitchen, scrubbed down the walls and ceiling and started fixing the blown
plaster.
By
the time mid-afternoon came we were feeling a tad peckish, so we drove out to
the Kennington carvery where we met up with "My Boy TM"
and his branch of the tribe. We had a rather good double helping of roast
dinner.
I
quite like the Kennington carvery. You really do get all you can eat for twelve
quid (and what you can’t eat goes into a
bag for the dogs). Mind you the place is just the teensiest bit “council”. There
is always at least one brat somewhere in the background screaming and the place does feature
quite a few scratters in its clientele. One such was at the till when I was
paying; loudly trying to confuse the girl on the till in a shallow attempt to
get me to pay for her dinner. (The
scratter’s dinner, not the girl on the till’s).
Her
face was a picture when I told the girl on the till I had no idea who the
scratter was, I had never seen it before, and it could pay for its own dinner.
We went on to McDonalds
for a McFlurry for pudding. "er indoors TM" set off bowling;
I set about the ironing whilst watching Monty Python’s “Life of Brian” on Netflix. For a film that stirred up a *lot* of controversy when it was released,
I was rather disappointed this evening. I could remember it being *much* better.
It was a shame it
rained for much of today…
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