Well as I expected it took me a leetle while to really appreciate it but I am now liking very much Moon Pix by Cat Power. Thank you Mikey for introducing me to an artiste about whom I knew nothing. You young'uns (and that includes you as well Marc) are my only hope of hearing about interesting stuff. There's very little of that ilk on Radio 4 and I'm far too busy doing Su Doku to read music reviews.
Meanwhile I've been waiting (rather impatiently) for my birthday gift from Katkin. Well it arrived today. R.L Burnside. What a rude, loud boy he is. Cleared the kitchen of Ploppy Pants and Clint very satisfactorily.
And speaking of clearing kitchens - I plan to keep the Ramones handy for when Pearlie's been hanging round my shanty all day long.
Thursday, September 29, 2005
The Talk of the Country
Bert is a bit affronted to hear that he is the Talk of the Country. Ploppy Pants had all the gen about the siege outside the Dromona Creamery and of course as usual he refused to say where he had heard it.
He says to me, "Did you tell Ploppy Pants about Sunday evening?"
I reply, "No, but I put it on the internet."
Clint tells it like this,
Of course that’s why I volunteered to walk home ‘for the van’. It was really because I didn’t want the whole of Dromona seeing me, standing there like a complete idiot, locked out of my own car.
He says to me, "Did you tell Ploppy Pants about Sunday evening?"
I reply, "No, but I put it on the internet."
Clint tells it like this,
“I thought nothing atall about seeing Nelly out tramping the roads. Says I to myself ‘wud ye luk at the goes o’ her,’ and then when I got to the creamery all I could see was this crowd o’ ones standing outside the gates and I thought the Dromona boys were out on strike. Then next thing I see Bert stuck in the middle of it and I wonder what the hell he’s doing there. Have they been out for a run and fell out and she’s off stomping home in a rip?”
Of course that’s why I volunteered to walk home ‘for the van’. It was really because I didn’t want the whole of Dromona seeing me, standing there like a complete idiot, locked out of my own car.
Tales from the Coalface
Wakened at 4.45am. Think (hope) I am dreaming. Door bangs, buzzer buzzes. I go down. Look out window and see police car.
I am a picture. Birds nest hair, red pyjama trousers, pulled on cardi, bare feet, bleary eyed. I open the door. Young PSNI officer stands there. About 14. A cigarette glows in the back of the police car.
The cigarette glows, speaks, "Yeah."
Policechild says, "Sorry. Really sorry."
I don't say, "That's OK. Don't worry about it."
I go back to bed. But not to sleep. Damn.
I am a picture. Birds nest hair, red pyjama trousers, pulled on cardi, bare feet, bleary eyed. I open the door. Young PSNI officer stands there. About 14. A cigarette glows in the back of the police car.
"Will you take TC?"
"TC doesn't need to come through here. She's got her
own front door. Own key""Oh sorry. She does have keys too. Sorry."
"You got your keys TC?"
Policechild says, "Sorry. Really sorry."
I don't say, "That's OK. Don't worry about it."
I go back to bed. But not to sleep. Damn.
Wednesday, September 28, 2005
Bert's Misery
He's going through two boiler suits a day!
When he came down for his lunch today I asked him how the sewer work was going. He said,
When he came down for his lunch today I asked him how the sewer work was going. He said,
Think of him then as you sit at your cosy desks as far from a shovel as you can get."I'm standing in a hole with the rain lashing down on me and
muck slabbered everywhere! It's pure hell upon earth."
7 Things
I was tagged to do this by Ganching
7 Things I Want To Do Before I Die
1. Celebrate my 100th birthday in excellent health
2. Visit Africa again
3. Become a grandmother
4. Get a donkey
5. Make a beautiful garden…
6. …. a comfortable home
7. Achieve modest fame & fortune
7 Things That I Cannot Do
1. Tell a lie
2. Suppress farts
3. Suffer fools
4. Shut up
5. Cartwheels
6. Stick Tony Blair
7. One thing at a time
7 Things That Attract Me To The Opposite Sex
1. Wit & intelligence
2. Kindness
3. Well shaped hands
4. Excellent driving skills, preferably with HGV licence
5. Skilled at wielding chainsaw
6. Smiles
7. See through plastic trousers (Iggy only)
7 Things That I Say Most Often
1. Thank you
2. FUUUCK!
3. I don’t agree
4. N – O spells I definitely don’t think so.
5. Are those bloody dogs off scunging again?
6. Mummy hears you
7. Who had you here last night?
7 Celebrity Crushes
1. Johnny Depp
2. Peter Kay
3. Robert Carlyle
4. Iggy Pop
5. Rufus Wainwright
6. Naveen Andrews
7. Nelly
I ain’t tagging anyone. But feel free to tag yourself if you feel like it. Ed?
7 Things I Want To Do Before I Die
1. Celebrate my 100th birthday in excellent health
2. Visit Africa again
3. Become a grandmother
4. Get a donkey
5. Make a beautiful garden…
6. …. a comfortable home
7. Achieve modest fame & fortune
7 Things That I Cannot Do
1. Tell a lie
2. Suppress farts
3. Suffer fools
4. Shut up
5. Cartwheels
6. Stick Tony Blair
7. One thing at a time
7 Things That Attract Me To The Opposite Sex
1. Wit & intelligence
2. Kindness
3. Well shaped hands
4. Excellent driving skills, preferably with HGV licence
5. Skilled at wielding chainsaw
6. Smiles
7. See through plastic trousers (Iggy only)
7 Things That I Say Most Often
1. Thank you
2. FUUUCK!
3. I don’t agree
4. N – O spells I definitely don’t think so.
5. Are those bloody dogs off scunging again?
6. Mummy hears you
7. Who had you here last night?
7 Celebrity Crushes
1. Johnny Depp
2. Peter Kay
3. Robert Carlyle
4. Iggy Pop
5. Rufus Wainwright
6. Naveen Andrews
7. Nelly
I ain’t tagging anyone. But feel free to tag yourself if you feel like it. Ed?
Tuesday, September 27, 2005
Bert to the Rescue
I’m not the only one who has been working flat out recently. For Bert attending ‘Gorgeous’ Gage is a full-time job (and then some). After all a man who can get stressed out by a few clematis growing too fast or a touch of red spider mite is a man who will be stressed to the max by shovel work and the necessity of keeping Gorgeous supplied with specialised plant from the ‘Hire It’ shop. The poor soul has been coming home completely exhausted.
Last night was no exception. So it was only to be expected that he failed to do an accurate head count of the livestock at bedtime. He just assumed Paddy would be cosily curled up in my bed, as that is where Paddy usually is after 9pm.
This morning whilst at work I received this phone call.
So that’s where you’re at. Where else would I be? Do you know where Paddy is? What! How should I know where Paddy is? Isn’t he with you? What’s wrong? He’s not in the house or the yard or anywhere. I’ve looked everywhere. He’s not lying dead anywhere. What! Dead! Find him! I can’t! I’ve got the digger man here in 10 minutes. What’s more important? The dog or the digger man? Find Paddy!Distraught I slam down the phone. Fifteen minutes later Bert phoned back.
Well it’s all right. I’ve found him. Where was he? He was in the field in front of the house. He was just sitting there with his head stuck in a yellow bucket. He didn’t know where he was. I think he’d been sitting there all night. He couldn’t find his way home. Oh God! The poor thing. Is he OK? He’s a bit quiet on it. Give him a big kiss and hug from me. I can’t. He boked in the bucket. He’s stinking of vomit. Oh wash it off and kiss him anyway. Yeah. Sure.Poor Paddy. He has been very stressed all day. But he cheered up to no end when HANNAH CAME HOME!
Monday, September 26, 2005
Clint to the Rescue
Two of my esteemed colleagues are currently on sick leave and consequently I have been working full-time rather than part-time. God that is a tiring state of affairs. I don’t know how you full-time workers do it.
Of course the nature of my work does not lead to any kind of mental ease. My shifts usually consist of starting at 3pm, working until 11pm, a sleep period, and then working from 7.30am to 15.30pm. During this 24.5-hour period we don’t get a sniff of fresh air, as breaks must be taken on the premises. Added to that it is usually lone working.
Now the sleep period. Sleeping there is never as easeful as sleeping at home in my own big bed surrounded by furry four-legged creatures. For a start we’re ‘on call’. This means that the Social Services, the Police or the Customers can call on us. On Saturday night the Duty Social Worker called me at 1.30am.
“Would you take….?”
“Aye. We would….”
“Get back to you on that.”
“Right.”
One hour later.
“They’ve decided. Took some persuading. They’ll come.”
“OK. Estimated time of arrival?”
“Half three. Or thereabouts.”
“Right.”
Snap out of dozy mode and spring to full alertness. On duty from 2.30am. Lots to do.
One hour later. Nada. Yet another hour. More nada. It’s now 4.30am. At quarter to five I contact DSW. At five to five he phones back.
“Just heard this myself ten minutes ago that they've decided to go somewhere else.”
“Oh.”
Back to bed for continuation of night’s sleep. All two hours of it.
I was grand until about an hour before knocking off time when the energy drained out of me. My last words to my colleague as I departed,
“Don’t think I’ll be walking too far this evening.”
When I got home I found that Bert had filled the fridge full of pink nursery desserts. Mmmm. Sweet. Creamy. Soothing. This leads to a great improvement in my mood, which meant that when he went on to propose a walk I immediately agreed.
So we drove for a bit. But Bert couldn’t decide where we should go so I suggested I’d drive and he pulled in so we could swap. As we both got out Rosie jumped into the front seat and somehow must have activated the central locking system. So there we were outside Dromona Creamery with the dogs locked inside the car and the engine running. And where was the spare key? On my key ring beside the main key stuck in the ignition. And where was my phone? At home. And where was Bert’s Swiss Army Knife? At home. And where were we? Standing like two lemons outside a locked, dog filled, switched on car outside the Dromona Creamery. If this had happened in Harryville we would immediately have been surrounded by hordes of 14 year olds who would have got us into that car in a moment.
I decided to walk home, collect the van and some handy tools for breaking into the car. It was a pretty hazardous walk, as every minute a huge milk-tanker would come hurtling around one of those hairpin bends causing me to leap for the ditch. Then one rather well driven milk-tanker hurtled towards me. I was treated to a huge blast of the horn and a bank of lights flashed at me. Yes dear reader it was Clint. I knew then that our troubles were over. He, of course, thought I was out on one of my walks. But I knew he would happen upon Bert and sort him out. So I kept walking towards home. It’s a jolly nice walk once you get past the hairpin bends bit.
Clint got into the car with the aid of a screwdriver and a long piece of wire. And I thought that he was such a nicely brought up Academy boy.
Of course the nature of my work does not lead to any kind of mental ease. My shifts usually consist of starting at 3pm, working until 11pm, a sleep period, and then working from 7.30am to 15.30pm. During this 24.5-hour period we don’t get a sniff of fresh air, as breaks must be taken on the premises. Added to that it is usually lone working.
Now the sleep period. Sleeping there is never as easeful as sleeping at home in my own big bed surrounded by furry four-legged creatures. For a start we’re ‘on call’. This means that the Social Services, the Police or the Customers can call on us. On Saturday night the Duty Social Worker called me at 1.30am.
“Would you take….?”
“Aye. We would….”
“Get back to you on that.”
“Right.”
One hour later.
“They’ve decided. Took some persuading. They’ll come.”
“OK. Estimated time of arrival?”
“Half three. Or thereabouts.”
“Right.”
Snap out of dozy mode and spring to full alertness. On duty from 2.30am. Lots to do.
One hour later. Nada. Yet another hour. More nada. It’s now 4.30am. At quarter to five I contact DSW. At five to five he phones back.
“Just heard this myself ten minutes ago that they've decided to go somewhere else.”
“Oh.”
Back to bed for continuation of night’s sleep. All two hours of it.
I was grand until about an hour before knocking off time when the energy drained out of me. My last words to my colleague as I departed,
“Don’t think I’ll be walking too far this evening.”
When I got home I found that Bert had filled the fridge full of pink nursery desserts. Mmmm. Sweet. Creamy. Soothing. This leads to a great improvement in my mood, which meant that when he went on to propose a walk I immediately agreed.
So we drove for a bit. But Bert couldn’t decide where we should go so I suggested I’d drive and he pulled in so we could swap. As we both got out Rosie jumped into the front seat and somehow must have activated the central locking system. So there we were outside Dromona Creamery with the dogs locked inside the car and the engine running. And where was the spare key? On my key ring beside the main key stuck in the ignition. And where was my phone? At home. And where was Bert’s Swiss Army Knife? At home. And where were we? Standing like two lemons outside a locked, dog filled, switched on car outside the Dromona Creamery. If this had happened in Harryville we would immediately have been surrounded by hordes of 14 year olds who would have got us into that car in a moment.
I decided to walk home, collect the van and some handy tools for breaking into the car. It was a pretty hazardous walk, as every minute a huge milk-tanker would come hurtling around one of those hairpin bends causing me to leap for the ditch. Then one rather well driven milk-tanker hurtled towards me. I was treated to a huge blast of the horn and a bank of lights flashed at me. Yes dear reader it was Clint. I knew then that our troubles were over. He, of course, thought I was out on one of my walks. But I knew he would happen upon Bert and sort him out. So I kept walking towards home. It’s a jolly nice walk once you get past the hairpin bends bit.
Clint got into the car with the aid of a screwdriver and a long piece of wire. And I thought that he was such a nicely brought up Academy boy.
Saturday, September 24, 2005
Snot Fair
Poor Bert. He never gets a chance. While I get to choose all the good stuff like floor coverings, paint colours, kitchens and so on, he gets to choose the sewer pipes and fittings. And nobody is ever going to see them and say,
Well done Bert. You have such impeccable taste in sewage disposal fittings.Maybe Sammy 'Gorgeous' Gage will say,
Wow Bert. You picked good ones. Those sewer pipes are awesome.No. I don't think Sammy'll say anything. He'll just bury them with his big backhoe. Poor Bert. Snot fair.
Thursday, September 22, 2005
Whiskey & Coke
Today was spent cleaning the floors of the upstairs rooms to prepare them for Vinyl Man. Yes I know I said it would be Lino Man but he proved to be a very elusive fellow and I tired of searching for him. Cleaning a new house is a very dirty job. You wouldn’t get half as clarried cleaning a filthy old house. The dust doesn’t raise so much in an old house for it has all the existing dirt and grease to stick to. In new houses all the surfaces are clean and dry and this fine white powder gets everywhere.
And speaking of fine white powders it’s reported that Kate Moss has a £200 a day coke habit. Only £200? Sure that’s not so much. Especially when you’re sharing your stash with Pete and all the other guys. And I was a little disappointed to read that she was only using a fiver to snort it. A shabby old fiver? When would Kate Moss even see a fiver a woman with her sort of money? Unless it was one of those Norn Iron plastic fivers she keeps especially for the job.
My own drug and alcohol-free lifestyle is starting to feel rather drear. I’ve been off alcohol for nearly seven weeks now and in the past few days I’ve found myself yearning for a nice glass of wine, or a gin or a wee nip of Laphroaig. I’m seriously considering having a drink come the 1st of October. Eight weeks will be quite long enough.
And speaking of fine white powders it’s reported that Kate Moss has a £200 a day coke habit. Only £200? Sure that’s not so much. Especially when you’re sharing your stash with Pete and all the other guys. And I was a little disappointed to read that she was only using a fiver to snort it. A shabby old fiver? When would Kate Moss even see a fiver a woman with her sort of money? Unless it was one of those Norn Iron plastic fivers she keeps especially for the job.
My own drug and alcohol-free lifestyle is starting to feel rather drear. I’ve been off alcohol for nearly seven weeks now and in the past few days I’ve found myself yearning for a nice glass of wine, or a gin or a wee nip of Laphroaig. I’m seriously considering having a drink come the 1st of October. Eight weeks will be quite long enough.
What’s yours Nelly?
Oh I’ll just have whatever Kate Moss is having.
Farewell to Summer...
..and farewell to this garden. Next year it may be Clint's Garden and be under concrete and be a parking space for lorries, tractors and forklifts. Sigh. Bet he'll still be tortured with meconopsis cambrica though {evil laugh}
Wednesday, September 21, 2005
The Gasman Cometh
Now all we need is the diggerman Sammy 'Gorgeous' Gage to finish off the sewer and Eric the Plumber to connect us to it and our house is totally ready to live in.
Heat, light, water, working toilets and cooking facilities will all be in place.
I'm so excited!
Heat, light, water, working toilets and cooking facilities will all be in place.
I'm so excited!
Tuesday, September 20, 2005
She Bonkers, He Inconsiderate Bastard
When you've been having the same row for over 19 years perhaps it's time to ask yourself this. Why? Because it is so tedious, so dreary and so very weary-making.
During the row's most recent manifestation Bert accused,
I roared back,
The next day dawns. I feel silly. At some point we have a genuine reconciliation.
This is my aim. It's not to never ever have the She Bonkers, He Inconsiderate Bastard row ever again. It's to have longer and longer gaps in between. And if that's the standard then we are making progress.
During the row's most recent manifestation Bert accused,
"You're the one whose supposed to have all the emotional intelligence."
I roared back,
"D'ye think if I had any emotional intelligence I'd be acting like this?"Here's what happens. I go to work. I do extra hours. I get tired and I become emotionally drained. I come home. I try to be nice. But I bring an electrically charged aura of tension with me. This unsettles Bert. He becomes defensive. He knows what's coming. We both prickle. We have a row. We shout (mostly me), I cry. He retreats to the male cave place. I feel very sorry for myself. Later I attempt reconciliation. But I really want to winkle him out of the male cave place to row more. He knows this. Stays there. I feel very, very sorry for myself.
The next day dawns. I feel silly. At some point we have a genuine reconciliation.
This is my aim. It's not to never ever have the She Bonkers, He Inconsiderate Bastard row ever again. It's to have longer and longer gaps in between. And if that's the standard then we are making progress.
Monday, September 19, 2005
Buying A Goat: All You Need To Know
It’s that time of the year again. Time to be thinking about our autumn/winter wardrobes. Actually the title says it all for me. Of course it was ‘coat’ not ‘goat’ but when I thought it was ‘goat’ it was the only article that really interested me in this Sunday’s Style supplement.
Balenciaga? I can hardly afford Primark.
How to look like a lady? Advice from Tara Palmer-Tomkinson? That skinny tart! I think not.
Hot nights in heels? Hardly.
This is what I shall be wearing this autumn/winter season.
Now that’s what I call proper dressing.
Balenciaga? I can hardly afford Primark.
How to look like a lady? Advice from Tara Palmer-Tomkinson? That skinny tart! I think not.
Hot nights in heels? Hardly.
This is what I shall be wearing this autumn/winter season.
- Tee shirts
- Red pyjama trousers
- Cosy gilets
- Jumpers mostly red
- Big shirts
- Bert’s new waterproof jacket
- Black opaque tights
- Denim skirts (not short)
- A selection of black skirts
- A selection of black trousers
- Wellington boots
- Ankle boots from 2003
- Ankle boots from 2004
- A selection of comfy flat shoes in blue, red and black
- Training shoes (for walking only)
Now that’s what I call proper dressing.
Saturday, September 17, 2005
The Long Drop
A number of years ago the Wee Manny family took a scunner of living in Norn Iron and bought themselves a South African village. It was a bit run down so they got it for a good price - about the price of a three-bed roomed house in Galgorm actually. The village was in the Eastern Cape and was called Old Thomas River. It was a little township that had been built around a railway station. It comprised a hotel, a post-office, a school and a station house. The Wee family lived in the hotel and used the post office for parties and guests. Their farm worker (South Africa remember) lived in the schoolhouse. The other buildings were pretty dilapidated. Let me explain the farm worker. Kabula came with the place and would have been devastated if his employment hadn’t continued. He definitely found the Wee and Diana very benevolent employers and said he had learned more English from the Wee than from any other boss. South African employers typically speak to their black employees in Afrikaans or Xhosa.
We visited them for three weeks one January. While we were there we took several trips around the country. One of these trips took as to a tourist resort called Hogsback, which is part of the Amatola mountain range. On the way back the Wee decided we should visit an old friend of his in a town called Keiskamahoek*. Mrs The Wee Manny (Diana) is South African. She’d met the Wee in London Town and after they got married they went to live and work in Keiskamahoek where they worked in a lumber factory The Wee as a boss (remember he’s white) and Diana in the office. The Wee befriended Harry who was the factory foremen. No doubt Harry kept the young, inexperienced boss on the right track.
It was a Sunday and although Harry was not expecting us he made us very welcome. His wife was not there. He told us that she was at Church and he chuckled that she spent all Sunday in Church but that it was not for him. Rum was produced. Within an hour Harry’s porch was full. There was the five of us and as many and more again of Harry’s friends and neighbours. There were no women for they were all at Church. The men were all Xhosa except for one Zulu man. They all spoke good English. It was decided that more drink was needed so a trip to the bottle store was proposed. Everyone piled into the vehicles, our car and their pick up truck. As we drove through the town lots of women and children and a few men were coming out of various churches. Harry’s party blared horns and yelled and waved to attract attention to them and us. I remember feeling a bit affronted at the disapproving looks of the good God-fearing, Church attending people.
When we got back to Harry’s place his wife and a couple of her friends/sisters had returned from Church. Mrs Harry was part of her Church Choir and she and her friends wore an elaborate, beautifully tailored costume with matching headdresses. It was in emerald green with a dazzling white ruffled, starched collar. I’d noticed on our trip through town that different churches had different choral costumes and that they were all equally elaborate. The ladies were quite shy and not half as raucous as their men folk. But then they’d been imbibing the word of the Lord, not big feeds of rum. We were given a meal of stewed meat and vegetables with delicious flat bread. Diana, Laura and myself were served first, then the Wee and Bert, then Harry, then his older friends, then the younger men.
After a few hours and a few glasses of gin I needed to visit the toilet. I whispered to Diana, “Will there be a toilet?” She said, “Ask Harry’s wife.” so I did ask her and off she went coming back moments later with a beautiful, rose-patterned china pot with a lacy towel folded over the top. I just couldn’t! I just couldn’t do my thing in her beautiful china pot and then what? So I shook my head and thanked her and said no.
But I still needed to go. The Wee said, “Why don’t you go to the long drop?” I had it pointed out to me and set off. The long drop was a little tin construction sitting on top of a mound. I dandered over. Even at a distance the smell was very bad. I ventured in. I held my breath. I did my thing. It wasn’t the first time I’d used a dry toilet. But it was the first time in a hot climate. And at about 12 foot it was a long drop too.
The Wees sold Old Thomas River several years later and came back home. He missed the Ould Sod too much. The village is a backpacking hostel now. I wonder if Kabula still works there? And does he still speak English with a Ballymena twang?
*Keiskamahoek is situated in the poverty-stricken but beautiful Transkei region. In 1959, the National Party government introduced legislation to create eight ethnically and linguistically divided homelands for black South Africans. The Transkei was designated the homeland for Xhosa speakers. The Transkei homeland became independent state in 1976, although it was only recognised by a few countries internationally. With the victory of the ANC in the 1994 elections it was reincorporated into South Africa, despite opposition from many of its citizens. (Wikipedia)
The Polish Student
It’s not often that I’m alone in this house but tonight is one of those nights. Bert is away on one of his camping trips with a bunch of social worker types from West Belfast. They drink whiskey, smoke grass, make camp fires, howl at the moon then sleep under the stars. Social work can send a man a bit crazy.
I got home from work at four and took the dogs out for a brisk two-mile walk. The dogs always did brisk but it’s a new development for me. Then I shopped (mostly fruit and vegetables) and came back here and made myself a proper meal. Yay for me. Since then I’ve been moseying around sorting out, throwing out and packing for the big move. I like being on my own.
Then just after eight the door knocked. I was upstairs sorting stuff and stomped down feeling a bit pissed that my peace was to be interrupted. There on the doorstep stood a perfect stranger with a rucksack on his back. He appeared to be on foot as there was no vehicle in sight. He was a young man in his early to mid twenties. He greeted me in stilted English and handed me a little homemade card. The card stated that he was a Polish student; here to learn English and he needed money to help him pursue his studies. Straightaway I said sorry, I couldn’t help him and he said something polite that ended in Madam and turned and walked away. He looked very dignified.
Why didn’t I help him? Maybe give him just a few quid? I was worried that he was a con artist. I was very worried because I was on my own and there are no houses nearby and because it was dark. My only consolation was that the dogs danced around him barking their heads off. I did not discourage them from doing so though he seemed unafraid of them. Did I distrust him because he was foreign, didn’t speak English? I don’t know. I’m worried now that he was in some kind of difficulty and I didn’t help. I feel a bit sorry for him. Not that my sympathy will do him much good if he was genuine.
I still don’t think it’s my job to give him money to pursue his education. Maybe if he’d come to the door and said he was starving I would have helped. What was he doing up our lane in the middle of the country anyway? I wish Bert were here.
I got home from work at four and took the dogs out for a brisk two-mile walk. The dogs always did brisk but it’s a new development for me. Then I shopped (mostly fruit and vegetables) and came back here and made myself a proper meal. Yay for me. Since then I’ve been moseying around sorting out, throwing out and packing for the big move. I like being on my own.
Then just after eight the door knocked. I was upstairs sorting stuff and stomped down feeling a bit pissed that my peace was to be interrupted. There on the doorstep stood a perfect stranger with a rucksack on his back. He appeared to be on foot as there was no vehicle in sight. He was a young man in his early to mid twenties. He greeted me in stilted English and handed me a little homemade card. The card stated that he was a Polish student; here to learn English and he needed money to help him pursue his studies. Straightaway I said sorry, I couldn’t help him and he said something polite that ended in Madam and turned and walked away. He looked very dignified.
Why didn’t I help him? Maybe give him just a few quid? I was worried that he was a con artist. I was very worried because I was on my own and there are no houses nearby and because it was dark. My only consolation was that the dogs danced around him barking their heads off. I did not discourage them from doing so though he seemed unafraid of them. Did I distrust him because he was foreign, didn’t speak English? I don’t know. I’m worried now that he was in some kind of difficulty and I didn’t help. I feel a bit sorry for him. Not that my sympathy will do him much good if he was genuine.
I still don’t think it’s my job to give him money to pursue his education. Maybe if he’d come to the door and said he was starving I would have helped. What was he doing up our lane in the middle of the country anyway? I wish Bert were here.
Ian's Tip of the Week
If you don't want your mugshot on the internet keep your birthdate a secret from Mrs Moser.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY IAN
HAPPY BIRTHDAY IAN
Friday, September 16, 2005
A Birthday
When I was a child I thought I was special because my father's birthday and mine were so close. Mine was on the 9th September, his on the 16th. I used to think that I, the firstborn, was his early birthday present. And to continue the tradition my firstborn Zoe was born just 10 days before my birthday. She was my special 21st birthday present. Daddy was 34 years older than me and would have been 86 today.
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