Stopped counting

The years creak by, one more missed birthday. Sister cooked us tea and made it special. I sat by the fire till midnight clicked through.

Been clearing my inbox today and found some old matter of fact messages - shopping lists, 'spag bol' for tea? And this one.

"As the bright light from the sun shone onto the patterned floor in the
sitting room, there 'dead centre' of the room appeared two nasty
looking patches. Was it a trick of the light, a shadow or something
worse? No, it was nasty smelling OIL - we may have to do something
about replacing the carpet if the marks won't come out - Robert and I
have done our best, we'll just have to wait and see.

PS could you also get some cooked ham for the kids sandwiches."

Message received, understood - and kept. Glass raised.

Wanderlust

Wanderlust. Hmmm. The lust I've always suffered.
As for wandering? Well in the words of Ted Chippington - I'm not the wanderer.
As for the king of wanderlust? Me and the long haired ginger freak went to see Gogol Bordello a few months ago.
Superb.
Formed a queue outside, picked a spot down front, and watched the world roll in to the point of heaving. Wasn't the oldest one in the room either. Excellent!

Out again last week to the talent show at my daughter's High School. No longer the stomping ground of the boy - he's moved on to pastures new but couldn't resist coming along to catch up with all his old buddies. Some of who came along on Friday to the Shed for a spot of Them Harvey Boys. For what was a rollicking good evening!

Cheers Eugene, but I'm alright lusting and wandering around my own backyard...

Click. Brrrrrrr.....

Chatting to the ether. Less than white noise in return.
Not to be disturbed, no keyboard sparring with the wicker teapot.
Click. Brrrrr.....

Productivity

Harvest time. There's a hundred and one things I should be doing. Instead the dining table is now covered in jars of beetroot chutney, pickled onions, garlic cloves bobbing in spiced oil, apple chutney and for good measure there's a goodly five gallons of dark yuletide ale bubbling into life.

And beside it all last night's Scrabble score of 250-odd to 475. Against. Beautifully beaten to bed...

New phone

No trumpets.
No fanfare.
No Android.
No iPhone.
No smarty pants phone at all, just the cheapest cheapie phone that I could buy to replace my ancient dying Nokia that I swapped for a 99p penknife.
No it's not turned on.
No you can't have the number.
Know me too well.