Treacle woke me shortly before the alarm was
due to go off; she was having a nightmare. She was whimpering and growling in
her sleep, so I fussed her until she settled. Dogs really do dream.
I had a shave, made
toast and watched another episode of "Peep Show". I'm now into
the fifth season of it; apparently there are nine seasons so I am now half-way
through. It passes an otherwise dull half-hour whilst I scoff toast. Some
episodes are more entertaining than others, but unless something changes rather
radically, if you see one episode, you've seen the lot.
With toast scoffed I
had a look at the Internet. It was still there. Not much had happened overnight
other than me getting an email from the power company who have looked at my gas
and leccie usage over the last year. Despite leccie and gas prices soaring and
the last year's rampant inflation, they have decided to cut my monthly bills by
thirty quid. I'm now paying sixty quid a month less than I had been paying two
years ago. How does that work?
I got dressed; Treacle
was sleeping peacefully by then. I set off to work through two sets of
temporary traffic lights. No one was working at either... Am I being hopelessly
naive in thinking that if no one is working at traffic lights then the
contractors should put down huge metal sheets (over which the traffic could
drive) and open up the road? I'm reliably informed that road works carry on
overnight in other parts of the world.
As I drove up
Brookfield Road I was conscious of a large van behind me. Driving far too close
behind me with his headlights dazzling me. This chap stayed at a constant two
yards behind me until he eventually came alongside at the traffic lights for
the Godinton estate where he flew off rather dangerously. I've often said that
if people want to drive like idiots that is up to them, but doing so with their
company's name emblazoned all over their vehicle can be somewhat
counterproductive. Look at the Google reviews of this company (picking
one totally at random). No one comments on their construction abilities;
just their poor driving.
As I headed up the
motorway I listened to the pundits on the radio as I do most days. There was
quite a bit of talk about Royal Mail and how often they deliver. Back in the day there
were two letter deliveries a day, but back in the day they were delivering
twenty billion letters every year. Nowadays they shift less than half of that
amount, and this morning there was talk of delivering twice weekly rather than
twice daily. I'm not sure who was doing the talking though; I'm sure we
currently only have deliveries twice a week.
And overnight American
and British forces have given the Houthi rebels in Yemen yet another slap. It doesn't seem to
have discouraged them though. History tells us that those who think they are
fighting a religious war won't let up easily, doesn't it? Talking of religion,
India is gearing up for presidential elections, and the hopefuls are making a point
of being seen acting very piously in the
temples.
Here we are in the
third decade of the twenty-first century and still superstition triumphs over
common sense.
I got to work for the
early shift. Today was something of a milestone at work; it is seven years
since I started working at Maidstone. There’s no denying that I was rather
apprehensive about leaving where I used to work. I’d had good times and bad
times there; toward the end some incredibly bad times. But having worked in a
place for thirty-two years, leaving takes quite a serious leap of faith. Seven
years ago I said about my new job “I rarely blog about work, and I’m not
going to do so today. Suffice it to say I quite like the look of what I saw and
I fully intend to go back tomorrow”.
I had written a rather bitter diatribe about
where I used to work, but on re-reading it all sounded rather petty. Let’s just
say that looking back I think I might well have had grounds for a constructive
dismissal case against where I used to work. In retrospect I am well out of
that place. It’s been seven years and I am still getting used to be happy in my
workplace.
“er indoors TM” sent a message at lunch time.
She had the arse. Having spent a little while making the bed, Bailey promptly
trashed it. Bearing in mind Bailey is too small to get onto the bed unaided I
suspect we've pissed on our own chips here.
She also gave me a shopping list of what I might buy on my way home
(or else). Milk was OK - I can get milk. but "vegetable oil"...
WTF is that? She sent me a photo of the stuff (which was helpful). Those
of my colleagues who do shopping assure me it is used to make chips.
I came home via Tesco
where I got milk and vegetable oil. I got cream cakes as well. I had to act
fast though; when I came to pay, the idiot on the counter stuffed it all into a
carrier bag and almost put the milk on top of the cakes, and when I stopped him
he honestly couldn’t see anything wrong with doing so.
Once home we had the
cakes with a cuppa. Bringing home cakes keeps “er indoors TM”
happy, but there’s no denying that cream slices have shrunk over the years.
“er indoors TM” boiled up some
sausages. The vegetable oil might have been involved; I have no idea. As we
scoffed them we watched “Junior Bake Off”. Have you ever watched it? The
children are hilarious. In today’s episode (actually broadcast some time ago)
the children had to bake a gingerbread model of what they thought was the most
important invention in history. Models included cars, televisions, space
rockets, mobile phones, clocks… but my favourite was chicken nuggets and chips.
One lad put chicken nuggets and chips as the pinnacle of human achievement.
I think he’s not entirely wrong.
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