Again I woke early. I made brekkie and had a look at Netflix. Having finished "Inside Job" yesterday morning and given up on "Another Life" yesterday evening, I had planned to watch the series "Vikings" as “My Boy TM” was insistent that I would like it... but it isn't available on Netflix any more. Netflix did suggest the fourth series of "Good Girls". Having watched the first three series and enjoyed them I thought I'd give this a go. The first episode of the new series wasn't too shabby at all.
I had a very quick look at the Internet - there wasn't much going on so I got ready for work. I stepped out into a rather cold morning and sighed. When I came home yesterday I'd had to park three streets away as there was nowhere closer to home to park. This morning there were two spaces right outside the front door. I've said before that I'd like to move house if only to have somewhere with my own dedicated parking space.
As I walked down the road I saw that the house by the hairdressers had filled the front garden with shingle and small trees and shrubs all in pots. A possible project for me for next spring? I can't help but wonder if the things would be safe in the front garden. Anyone could nick them... but then again the potted plants in the back garden weigh a ton, and no one has messed with the shingled area which has been there for some years.
As I nervously drove off to work slowly getting used to the new car I nearly fainted as an alarm went off. The car told me to look out for icy roads. That was considerate of it.
The pundits on the radio were all a-twitter about the news from the COP26 conference in which world leaders promised to end deforestation by 2030. And then the self-congratulatory hot air was followed by an interview with a South American chap who had been caught in the act of illegally cutting down trees in the Amazon rain forests. As a local farmer he needs space for his crops and animals, and no one in authority has (so he claimed) said anything to him about not clearing field space
There was also talk about the ongoing Anglo-French row about fishing rights. At the last minute the French have decided not to impose sanctions against the British over the ongoing argument about rights to fish in British waters; preferring to have discussions and negotiations instead. I can imagine the masses seeing this as a victory for the UK, and not as the huge concession from the French which it actually is. Just recently social media has been alive with one particular meme about the French being able to see one British trawler but not seeing endless boats full of illegal immigrants. Don't people realise that these so-called illegal immigrants aren't "immigrants" to the French. Across the channel they are "emigrants" and the French are glad to be rid of them. Why is it that the British and the French seem to be utterly unable to get on? Mind you if not-so-nice-next-door's house caught fire, I'd pour petrol on mine, so I suppose there's my answer.
I got to work and did my bit. At tea break I phoned the opticians. When I got my new glasses almost (but still a few days to go) a month ago the nice lady said that if I didn't like them I could bring them back and change them any time within the first month. I've given the things three weeks and I hate them with a passion. I can see fine through them. They fit well. But whenever I look in a mirror I don't see me. I see the love-child of Brains (from "Thunderbirds") and Joe 90. I told the people at the opticians that I'd like to change the glasses. They told me to get knotted; I've got them and I am stuck with them. Oh well - that's five hundred quid down the toilet. I'm off work next week; I shall see if I can sort out a relatively cheap new pair of specs from Boots, then I might just do what I have been threatening and take a hammer to the current pair (that's how much I detest them).
With work worked I set off to Kwik-Fit. They soon found the cause of the tyre pressure sensor warning – there was a nail sticking out of the tyre. The nice people checked all the other tyres too and pumped them all up a bit. I can only assume this was covered on the warranty as they didn’t charge me.
Having driven across Maidstone through the after-school traffic I then navigated my way through Maidstone’s (frankly horrendous) one-way system to the motorway. Having done seven motorway drives it was time for something a tad more ambitious. I survived it, as did the car. Mind you, I had another near heart attack when the engine cut out the first time I stopped. After a little trial and error I worked out that this was a feature. Whenever I put the car in neutral with the hand brake on, the engine switches off. And when I press the clutch so the engine starts again. I could get used to that.