The bathroom sink was draining incredibly slowly again this morning. Perhaps it is time to stick some “Mr Muscle” jollop down it (again)?
I made toast and had a look at the Internet. I was able to do so on my lap-top; the one “er indoors TM” has blagged from “Daddy’s Little Angel TM” is still stuck in “S”- mode and is consequently “f… all use to man or beast” (as my brother used to say). The internet was still there. Not many friends had posted much to social media over the weekend which was a shame, though I did see one group of friends had braved the rain and the mud and had gone for a walk yesterday. I rolled my eyes when I read one of the “Doctor Who” Facebook groups I follow, With only a squillion “Doctor Who” Facebook groups to choose from, someone has now started yet another one and was trying to get people to join it but wasn’t having much luck. With his every posting written in block capitals and filled with spelling mistakes and grammatical errors he came over as a rather thick schoolboy who wasn’t trying very hard. Why do people make such piss-poor postings to social media when there is no end of software available which spell-checks and looks for problems in the grammar? Does it really take *that* much time and effort to re-read what you’ve typed out and ask yourself if it conveys what you intend it to?
Four friends were having birthdays today. I sent the birthday video to each of their Facebook pages, and got ready to take Treacle to the park.
I got dressed… and wasn’t at all happy about how my new trousers fitted. The legs were far too long. I measured them; they were exactly the size I ordered… inside leg twenty-nine inches. My inside leg has been twenty-nine inches since I told my mum I was old enough to buy my own trousers over forty years ago. I measured my inside leg… and measured it again… and measured it again with a different tape measure… and got “er indoors TM” to check. My inside leg is now only twenty-eight inches. I then measured my height. I have been five feet ten inches tall for years. I am now only five feet eight and a half inches. I’m not bowed over or stooping… I have shrunk.
Apparently this is not unusual; people typically lose half an inch every ten years after the age of forty. I wonder how much more I will shrink?
Wasn’t there a film made about this sort of thing?
I set the washing machine going then took Treacle round the park. Despite being without Pogo (who is still on his holiday) she took the opportunity to bark at a passing dog (from the safety of the other side of the road), but other than that her behaviour was perfect. Which was more than could be said for a passing brat who tried to grab Treacle as though she was a rag doll. The brat’s mother seemed very surprised when I asked how many times her brat has got himself bitten by attacking dogs in that way; it never occurred to her that a dog would see be3ing roughly grabbed by a stranger as an attack. I patiently explained how to ask a dog’s owner if they might stroke the dog, and mother and brat looked at me as though I was the stupid one.
As we walked round the park there were signs up. The council has said that they will not tolerate verbal and physical abuse of the gardeners in the park. I suppose if the council wasn’t hell-bent on chopping down quite so many healthy trees there wouldn’t be an issue.
Rather than walking home we only walked a third of the way home and drove the rest of the way. Last night when I came home after the late shift I had to park four streets away as there was nowhere closer to home to park. For all that “er indoors TM” wants a new bathroom and a new kitchen, I’d rather move house to somewhere with parking. Every late shift is the same… I drive past the front door about twenty minutes before I walk through it as it takes than long to find somewhere to park and then walk back home.
Once home I finally got round to trying to book tickets for next month’s Sparks concert. They are playing in Bexhill… and all the tickets have sold out. I really should have booked a long time ago; who would have thought that such an obscure band would be so popular.
The washing machine had done its thing so I hung clothes out on the clothes horse, activated the dishwasher, and spent an hour on the sofa alternately cuddling with Treacle and playing “Star Trek: Elite Force” as I listened to the rain outside. And all too soon it was time to drive to work through that rain… even though the BBC forecast said that at that moment I should expect sunny intervals with only a five per cent chance of rain.
Pausing only to brave the monsoon at the co-op I was soon on my way to work. As I drove I couldn't help but reflect on just how crap the weather forecast was today. I once made a serious error at work and was crucified for it, but when the weather forecasters get it wrong, everyone laughs... because no one really expects much from them anyway.
Yet again I find myself questioning my career choices...
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