What is wrong with people? Yesterday, Monday the 6th of September 2010, I had the misfortune of being placed in the position of needing to go to Trago Mills. For those reading this who haven't yet come across Trago Mills, it is a shop - about the size of Canterbury. A shop which sells just about everything at prices that are generally cheaper than most. Hooray for those of us seeking DIY tools. A shop that is teeming with people who are either excited to the point of frenzy, drooling at the low prices and filling their plastic pull-along carts with junk that they don't need and will never use or couples arguing, loudly and often incoherently after traipsing around the place, getting completely lost and forgetting why the f**k they came there in the first place. A shop where security guards check your shopping bag on the way out and cardboard-cut-out, life-sized policemen advertise the number of shoplifters they've prosecuted that month.
I try to avoid going to Trago Mills. But when a shopping list builds up and, for example, a packet of ten plastic curtain hooks costs 69p, compared to £2.99 at Homebase, well, you have to give in, bite down hard on a hunk of wood and brace yourself against people wetting themselves with avarice or husband shouting at wife, "It's okay when we look at what you want to look at, but when it comes to me, oh no, no, not a bloody look in!" Perhaps I ought to stuff my ears with cotton wool and wear blinkers? Anyway, back to the point, I hopped in my Jeep and headed, defiantly, to Trago Mills.
What do I find when I get there? The entire area, approximating to the size of a football pitch, that only weeks ago was dedicated to drawing money from the wallet in pursuance of living it up in the garden, is festooned with bloody Christmas stuff! Cards, crackers, trees, tinsel... well, you know what Christmas stuff is...
Hello? Is it me? It's the first week of September! What happened to Autumn? That fabulous season in which trees send their leaves to the ground in a fabulous array of reds, yellows, golds and browns; in which farmers reap their harvests and roll their hay; in which the cooling musty air hints at the Winter to come but can still surprise with warm bathing sunshine. Well? Come on Mr. Sainsbury, Mr. John Lewis, Mr. Tesco, Mr Bloody Trago Mills, what's your excuse? Why have you done away with our lovely Autumn?
In some ways, I suppose, you can't blame the hideous conglomerate kleptomaniacs for parading Christmas paraphernalia in front of us. Why should I say this? Why should I give them an out? I'll tell you why... it's because the moronic, drooling half-wits in Trago Mills were actually buying the stuff! Picking boxes of crackers off the shelves, looking around the packaging (What for? You know what's in them - jokes not even worthy of a groan, a cheap paper hat and a poorly-moulded plastic something useless), replacing it on the shelf, picking up the next one (Why? You know what's in them - jokes not even...etc.) and then, as my jaw dropped, actually placing it in their basket! What? Are you insane? What is the matter with you?
I like Christmas. I really do. I am very fortunate - I enjoy meeting up with my relatives, chatting about nothing in particular, eating, drinking, playing silly games. So, this is certainly not a Scrooge-inspired rant. But, really, truly, how long does any one person need to prepare for Christmas? Two or three shopping trips, pack a suitcase. That's it. Yes, it can raise the hackles and the blood pressure to leave things until the last minute, but surely, a couple of weeks is all you need? Give it three, go on then... so, let's say December the 1st, shall we?
If I were Cameron, I'd ban the selling of any Christmas item before December the 1st. We don't need it, we really don't. Why do we have to suffer the build up to a single day for a third of an entire year? It's commercialism gone berserk. The saddest thing is that it has diluted the magic of Christmas. How can children get excited about it when it's pushed into their faces in shops, on TV, in newspapers and magazines for four entire months? When Carols and Christmas songs are everywhere you go for more than 120 days?
So, if anyone reading this has actually bought a Christmas item before the 1st of December, stop it. Just stop it. And tell your friends and relatives to stop it. It's pointless and, worse, it is spoiling what used to be a fun and magical time of year. And, if everyone did stop it, perhaps that magic could be revived, hmmmm? And, as an added bonus, we'd get our Autumn back!
P.S. Where is that idiot going to store his stupid crackers for four months? I hope it's somewhere damp and the bloody things don't work! Hah!
Tuesday 7 September 2010
Wednesday 1 September 2010
Flies - more annoying buzzing or silent?
Just lately - and I'm talking about the last couple of weeks or so - we have been plagued by flies. Actually, that's a bit strong. If I said there were six flies at any one time performing completely pointless flying and landing exercises within our walls, that would be about it. Still, one fly is annoying. I have adopted a much greater tolerance of the flying insect since moving to uber-rural climes and I can live with them in the great outdoors. However, when they invade our private, human-only space, a space dedicated to the perpetuation of me and the wife in comfortable relaxation, that's when the slightly damp tea towel comes out.
I have perfected the art of flicking the tea towel, much after the fashion of Indiana Jones's whip-cracking days, with pinpoint accuracy, laying a smug fly stunned and writhing on its back, wondering where the hell that lightning-fast image of Winchester Cathedral came from. There are two 'tricks' involved here. The first is to practice the towel-flicking. For me, having been to public school and suffered the oh-so-hilarious antics of those older boys practised in the art of getting that last inch of damp towel to whip round at, quite literally, the speed of sound just as it reaches the back of my thigh, I needed to unleash my revenge on the younger element of the communal showers. So, from quite a young age, I had it.
The other is to observe your fly. After flying around for no apparent reason, it will land. It needs to land on a flat area, such as a window or wall. And the landing area needs to be free from obstruction and/or items that could suffer damage. The last thing you need is to have your elation at a successful thwack sullied by your favourite mug becoming dislodged and ending up in pieces on the floor - you couldn't afford the Super Glue for one thing. Worse still, your wife's favourite mug... the end of that towel whipping round at a force that would ping, let's say a peanut, sixty feet (I know - I've tried it) could easily render a semi-fragile ornament worthless.
As mentioned (please see above) the fly will land. It will, maybe, wander around in a ludicrous weaving pattern until it decides it's safe in a single spot. It's taking a breather, a little rest until it decides there's more aimless aerobatics to be undertaken. Watch it. Watch it closely while you approach, stealthily, and draw back your slightly damp tea towel, poised in readiness for the strike. Take aim, carefully. Know your target. Identify with that part of the window, wall, flat surface of some kind, vertical almost always more successful than horizontal. And wait. You won't have to wait long. What are you waiting for?
You're waiting for that moronic, pointless, vexatious clump of cells to clean its front legs -and it will. It can't resist it, the smug little bugger. And that's when you strike. Thwack! You see, when it's cleaning its front legs, it's not quite so aware of Winchester Cathedral approaching it at Mach 2. Thwack! It's a gonner. Grin.
Okay, I'm guessing I'm not alone in being annoyed by flies - probably one or two others who can't quite seem to see the benefit of a disease-carrying upstart, totally oblivious to your personal space making its presence irritatingly known. But, I have to ask this question...
Is a fly that is silent more or less annoying than one that buzzes?
On the surface of it, prima facie as the lawyers might say, it would seem fairly obvious that a buzzing Biggles would win hands down on the irritability scale. But I would have to put the case for the silent fly, your honour. You see, the thing is, you know right away of the presence of a buzzing fly. It irks instantly. It rises the sap. The whining buzzy sound sends signals to your brain, resulting in an auto-response that has you leaping through to the kitchen for your weapon of choice and you wait for it to land, following the buzzy sound and easily spotting your target.
Whereas... your silent fly, well. It can fly around for hours undetected. It can go where it likes. It can land on your chopping board and run up an down it to its heart's content. It can alight on your toothbrush, your coffee mug, your beer glass, your freshly-ironed underwear (ok, that's just me then). You're settled. You're relaxed in your favourite armchair. You're absorbed in your Jodi Picoult novel (or your A R Grundy novel if you've any panache). You're happily reading the round up of the local court cases in your local paper. You don't know why but you're somehow comfortably numb in front of the telly. You're playing a game of Rummikub with your iPod on random. And then there it is! It can appear on the periphery, just out of the corner of your eye. Or it can be damned blatant and land on your book/newspaper/TV screen/Rummikub tiles! You didn't know it was there. You've no idea how long it's been hanging around; where it's been.
But you're relaxed, comfy, the tea towel seems such a long way away. It's not buzzing, so you leave it. You waft it away with the back of your hand. You forget about it. Momentarily. But then it's back! Flying around silently then landing on your book/newsp... well you know, again. Another waft of the hand, this time with a little more irritation. It's gone. You don't know where. You can't follow it's buzz and you certainly can't see the bloody thing. And then, the ultimate irritation, the throwing down of the gauntlet, the declaration of war...
It lands on your head! Just below the right temple, on that soft bit above your eyebrow. Well, that's it! Had it just flown away, carried on its pointless business elsewhere, it might have lived - for as long a a fly lives, anyway. But landing on your head, well that's simply pushing things too far! You gave it a couple of chances, didn't you? You gave it the opportunity, more than once (in case there are any Brahmins reading) to clear orf, to go about its business. But, no. It has to push the boundaries, just go that one step too far. And up you get, from you erstwhile comfortable position, heading for the tea towel that's not long since dried up the day's coffee mugs.
You return, you're goat got at. But where is it? Where is the pipsqueak? No buzzing, see? No buzzing, so you can't locate the swine. You hunt for it. You're looking at anything light, anything that will throw it into contrast. But it's not there. So now you're all riled up, ready with your tea towel, hurled reluctantly from your comfort and the bugger's disappeared! There's something in the corner of your eye, but no, or was it? You stand there for a full five minutes. It seems to know. It's playing a game and you're losing. And then... there it is! It's landed on your Rummikub tiles and you line up your tea towel. The wife says 'No!' envisaging your game, at least an hour in, ending up irretrievably on the floor. You know there's a risk. You know it's a horizontal surface and your chances are exponentially reduced, but it's got your dander up!
You flick. You miss. Your Rummikub tiles spill to the floor. The fly launches silently into your airspace. Your wife groans. She doesn't understand. Until that fly is stunned into giving up on its Holy Grail of annoyance, you can't rest. You pull back your tea towel for a second shot and once again you hunt...
You see what I mean? I could repeat the last two paragraphs ad infinitum. Without that buzz, as irritating as it is, you're on a hunting expedition, potentially for hours. You simply can't zone in on the thing. It evades your senses and you stand, poised in the lounge, tea towel pulled back, ready to pounce... Either that or you give up, apologize to the wife and try to re-assemble your Rummikub game. Or, failing a correct re-positioning of the tiles, concede manfully, raising your wife's wrist triumphantly into the air, declaring her the Rummikub champion - at least for that particular night.
So, what do you reckon? Is a fly that is silent more or less irritating than one that buzzes?
I have perfected the art of flicking the tea towel, much after the fashion of Indiana Jones's whip-cracking days, with pinpoint accuracy, laying a smug fly stunned and writhing on its back, wondering where the hell that lightning-fast image of Winchester Cathedral came from. There are two 'tricks' involved here. The first is to practice the towel-flicking. For me, having been to public school and suffered the oh-so-hilarious antics of those older boys practised in the art of getting that last inch of damp towel to whip round at, quite literally, the speed of sound just as it reaches the back of my thigh, I needed to unleash my revenge on the younger element of the communal showers. So, from quite a young age, I had it.
The other is to observe your fly. After flying around for no apparent reason, it will land. It needs to land on a flat area, such as a window or wall. And the landing area needs to be free from obstruction and/or items that could suffer damage. The last thing you need is to have your elation at a successful thwack sullied by your favourite mug becoming dislodged and ending up in pieces on the floor - you couldn't afford the Super Glue for one thing. Worse still, your wife's favourite mug... the end of that towel whipping round at a force that would ping, let's say a peanut, sixty feet (I know - I've tried it) could easily render a semi-fragile ornament worthless.
As mentioned (please see above) the fly will land. It will, maybe, wander around in a ludicrous weaving pattern until it decides it's safe in a single spot. It's taking a breather, a little rest until it decides there's more aimless aerobatics to be undertaken. Watch it. Watch it closely while you approach, stealthily, and draw back your slightly damp tea towel, poised in readiness for the strike. Take aim, carefully. Know your target. Identify with that part of the window, wall, flat surface of some kind, vertical almost always more successful than horizontal. And wait. You won't have to wait long. What are you waiting for?
You're waiting for that moronic, pointless, vexatious clump of cells to clean its front legs -and it will. It can't resist it, the smug little bugger. And that's when you strike. Thwack! You see, when it's cleaning its front legs, it's not quite so aware of Winchester Cathedral approaching it at Mach 2. Thwack! It's a gonner. Grin.
Okay, I'm guessing I'm not alone in being annoyed by flies - probably one or two others who can't quite seem to see the benefit of a disease-carrying upstart, totally oblivious to your personal space making its presence irritatingly known. But, I have to ask this question...
Is a fly that is silent more or less annoying than one that buzzes?
On the surface of it, prima facie as the lawyers might say, it would seem fairly obvious that a buzzing Biggles would win hands down on the irritability scale. But I would have to put the case for the silent fly, your honour. You see, the thing is, you know right away of the presence of a buzzing fly. It irks instantly. It rises the sap. The whining buzzy sound sends signals to your brain, resulting in an auto-response that has you leaping through to the kitchen for your weapon of choice and you wait for it to land, following the buzzy sound and easily spotting your target.
Whereas... your silent fly, well. It can fly around for hours undetected. It can go where it likes. It can land on your chopping board and run up an down it to its heart's content. It can alight on your toothbrush, your coffee mug, your beer glass, your freshly-ironed underwear (ok, that's just me then). You're settled. You're relaxed in your favourite armchair. You're absorbed in your Jodi Picoult novel (or your A R Grundy novel if you've any panache). You're happily reading the round up of the local court cases in your local paper. You don't know why but you're somehow comfortably numb in front of the telly. You're playing a game of Rummikub with your iPod on random. And then there it is! It can appear on the periphery, just out of the corner of your eye. Or it can be damned blatant and land on your book/newspaper/TV screen/Rummikub tiles! You didn't know it was there. You've no idea how long it's been hanging around; where it's been.
But you're relaxed, comfy, the tea towel seems such a long way away. It's not buzzing, so you leave it. You waft it away with the back of your hand. You forget about it. Momentarily. But then it's back! Flying around silently then landing on your book/newsp... well you know, again. Another waft of the hand, this time with a little more irritation. It's gone. You don't know where. You can't follow it's buzz and you certainly can't see the bloody thing. And then, the ultimate irritation, the throwing down of the gauntlet, the declaration of war...
It lands on your head! Just below the right temple, on that soft bit above your eyebrow. Well, that's it! Had it just flown away, carried on its pointless business elsewhere, it might have lived - for as long a a fly lives, anyway. But landing on your head, well that's simply pushing things too far! You gave it a couple of chances, didn't you? You gave it the opportunity, more than once (in case there are any Brahmins reading) to clear orf, to go about its business. But, no. It has to push the boundaries, just go that one step too far. And up you get, from you erstwhile comfortable position, heading for the tea towel that's not long since dried up the day's coffee mugs.
You return, you're goat got at. But where is it? Where is the pipsqueak? No buzzing, see? No buzzing, so you can't locate the swine. You hunt for it. You're looking at anything light, anything that will throw it into contrast. But it's not there. So now you're all riled up, ready with your tea towel, hurled reluctantly from your comfort and the bugger's disappeared! There's something in the corner of your eye, but no, or was it? You stand there for a full five minutes. It seems to know. It's playing a game and you're losing. And then... there it is! It's landed on your Rummikub tiles and you line up your tea towel. The wife says 'No!' envisaging your game, at least an hour in, ending up irretrievably on the floor. You know there's a risk. You know it's a horizontal surface and your chances are exponentially reduced, but it's got your dander up!
You flick. You miss. Your Rummikub tiles spill to the floor. The fly launches silently into your airspace. Your wife groans. She doesn't understand. Until that fly is stunned into giving up on its Holy Grail of annoyance, you can't rest. You pull back your tea towel for a second shot and once again you hunt...
You see what I mean? I could repeat the last two paragraphs ad infinitum. Without that buzz, as irritating as it is, you're on a hunting expedition, potentially for hours. You simply can't zone in on the thing. It evades your senses and you stand, poised in the lounge, tea towel pulled back, ready to pounce... Either that or you give up, apologize to the wife and try to re-assemble your Rummikub game. Or, failing a correct re-positioning of the tiles, concede manfully, raising your wife's wrist triumphantly into the air, declaring her the Rummikub champion - at least for that particular night.
So, what do you reckon? Is a fly that is silent more or less irritating than one that buzzes?
Sunday 22 August 2010
An unintentional train journey
My two daughters and their friend came to stay with us in Cornwall for a week. It was a joy to have them and we hope they enjoyed themselves. The weather wasn't marvellous for August, but then it hasn't been marvellous for August for a very long time. Still, the girls enjoyed three days on the beach, two days shopping and one day at the Monkey Sanctuary. Not to mention their father's lip-smacking barbecues, ahem. Sadly, after the fastest-passing week in history it was time for them to return home - on the train.
I drove them to the station, waited with them on the platform and the train arrived - a mere minute late. Not bad. They clambered aboard carriage 'D' and headed for their reserved seats. I observed them through the window and walked along with them on the platform. I expected them to find their seats, settle in and return my waving as the train departed. But, no. They carried on, right through the carriage to the other end. Something wasn't right. I boarded the train to ascertain the problem and, as I had half-expected, their reserved seats weren't.
At this point the guard boarded the train and closed the door behind him. He asked if there was a problem. Ah, I thought, a kind, helpful gentlemen who will sort out this little faux pas. After all, my daughters have more than three hours on this train and, only rightly, should sit in their reserved seats. The conversation went something like this...
"Is there a problem?" How helpful of him.
"My daughters have reserved seats on this train, but there are people sitting in them."
"There are no reserved seats on this train." Deadpan. Emotionless. Almost robotic.
"But my daughters have reserved their seats. They are going to be on this train for more than three hours."
"There are no reserved seats on this train."
"What do you mean, there are no reserved seats on this train? My daughters have reserved them."
"There are no reserved seats on this train."
"Oh, for Goodness' sake. Well, girls you'll just have to find somewhere else to sit."
I turned to get off the train, but the guard held his arm across the door, a barrier to my safe exit.
"Excuse me, please. I need to get off."
"I can't open the door, once the train is moving, sir."
"Well, the train isn't moving, so if you don't mind, I'd like to get off."
"I can't open the door, sir."
"Well, I'm not travelling on this train. I need to get off."
"How am I supposed to know that, sir?"
"Now look, I wouldn't be on this train at all if my daughter's seats had been reserved, as they should have been."
"I can't open the door, sir."
"I'm trying to help my daughters, who aren't used to travelling by train. They have reserved seats. You haven't reserved them. Now, just let me off this train!"
"I can't open the door , sir."
"Oh, don't be ridiculous, just open the door."
"I've pressed the yellow button now, sir. That means I can't open the door."
"Well, unpress it. I need to get off."
"I can't open the door, sir, once I've pressed the yellow button."
"The train isn't moving. You could have let me off by now. Will you please just open the door!"
"I've told you, sir, I can't open the door."
"You have to be kidding me!"
I was becoming a little irate. If I asked you to imagine what a jobsworth on the railways looked like, you'd have this guy to a tee. No need for me to describe his mealy-mouthed officiousness, his prim spectacles, his immaculate uniform. I believe he picked up on my growing irritability and somehow sensed a tirade of abuse coming his way, albeit toned down profanity-wise for the benefit of my daughter's tender lug holes. And just as I opened my mouth to allow my vitriol to flow...
"You can go down to the front of the train. There are plenty of seats down there - in first class."
Well, the girl's eyes lit up. They didn't need asking twice and off they charged down the train, towing their overnight bags behind them, oblivious to their nudging and bashing of other passengers on the way. As my girls disappeared rapidly towards first class, I turned to the guard, the wind taken out of my sails. How could I harangue him now? Before I could say anything, he apologised - officiously.
"I'm sorry, but there really is nothing I can do once the yellow button has been pressed."
I sighed deeply, rejected the idea of suggesting where he could deposit his yellow button and shuffled off down the train to catch up with my upgraded daughters. They had settled in very comfortably either side of a large table in cosseting leather seats. They were within six paces of the buffet bar, which pleased them immensely and whilst the rest of the train was packed, only two other passengers occupied the entire carriage. They were straining to find the right balance between concern for my plight and outright hysterics at it, seeming to settle for wide grins and raised eyebrows and, bless them, managing not to laugh (which is more than I can say for my wife when she found out what had happened via a rudimentary telephone message). The girls would have a very cosy journey without the intrusion of pleb-class passenger noise.
I, on the other hand, would be sitting with my girls until the next stop - Plymouth - a 25-minute journey. Okay, I was in First Class, but I couldn't quite manage to see or feel the benefit of that at the time. My only consolation was to be spending another 25 minutes with my girls, albeit under unusual circumstances. Oh, and crossing the Tamar bridge by train - the first, and hopefully last time I would do that - except for the return journey of course, but you know what I mean.
So, I waved my girls goodbye, spent 45 minutes in the grey, perfunctory environs of Plymouth train station, sipping at an over-priced latte and caught the return train which, I noted, was liberally sprinkled with RESERVED SEATS!
I drove them to the station, waited with them on the platform and the train arrived - a mere minute late. Not bad. They clambered aboard carriage 'D' and headed for their reserved seats. I observed them through the window and walked along with them on the platform. I expected them to find their seats, settle in and return my waving as the train departed. But, no. They carried on, right through the carriage to the other end. Something wasn't right. I boarded the train to ascertain the problem and, as I had half-expected, their reserved seats weren't.
At this point the guard boarded the train and closed the door behind him. He asked if there was a problem. Ah, I thought, a kind, helpful gentlemen who will sort out this little faux pas. After all, my daughters have more than three hours on this train and, only rightly, should sit in their reserved seats. The conversation went something like this...
"Is there a problem?" How helpful of him.
"My daughters have reserved seats on this train, but there are people sitting in them."
"There are no reserved seats on this train." Deadpan. Emotionless. Almost robotic.
"But my daughters have reserved their seats. They are going to be on this train for more than three hours."
"There are no reserved seats on this train."
"What do you mean, there are no reserved seats on this train? My daughters have reserved them."
"There are no reserved seats on this train."
"Oh, for Goodness' sake. Well, girls you'll just have to find somewhere else to sit."
I turned to get off the train, but the guard held his arm across the door, a barrier to my safe exit.
"Excuse me, please. I need to get off."
"I can't open the door, once the train is moving, sir."
"Well, the train isn't moving, so if you don't mind, I'd like to get off."
"I can't open the door, sir."
"Well, I'm not travelling on this train. I need to get off."
"How am I supposed to know that, sir?"
"Now look, I wouldn't be on this train at all if my daughter's seats had been reserved, as they should have been."
"I can't open the door, sir."
"I'm trying to help my daughters, who aren't used to travelling by train. They have reserved seats. You haven't reserved them. Now, just let me off this train!"
"I can't open the door , sir."
"Oh, don't be ridiculous, just open the door."
"I've pressed the yellow button now, sir. That means I can't open the door."
"Well, unpress it. I need to get off."
"I can't open the door, sir, once I've pressed the yellow button."
"The train isn't moving. You could have let me off by now. Will you please just open the door!"
"I've told you, sir, I can't open the door."
"You have to be kidding me!"
I was becoming a little irate. If I asked you to imagine what a jobsworth on the railways looked like, you'd have this guy to a tee. No need for me to describe his mealy-mouthed officiousness, his prim spectacles, his immaculate uniform. I believe he picked up on my growing irritability and somehow sensed a tirade of abuse coming his way, albeit toned down profanity-wise for the benefit of my daughter's tender lug holes. And just as I opened my mouth to allow my vitriol to flow...
"You can go down to the front of the train. There are plenty of seats down there - in first class."
Well, the girl's eyes lit up. They didn't need asking twice and off they charged down the train, towing their overnight bags behind them, oblivious to their nudging and bashing of other passengers on the way. As my girls disappeared rapidly towards first class, I turned to the guard, the wind taken out of my sails. How could I harangue him now? Before I could say anything, he apologised - officiously.
"I'm sorry, but there really is nothing I can do once the yellow button has been pressed."
I sighed deeply, rejected the idea of suggesting where he could deposit his yellow button and shuffled off down the train to catch up with my upgraded daughters. They had settled in very comfortably either side of a large table in cosseting leather seats. They were within six paces of the buffet bar, which pleased them immensely and whilst the rest of the train was packed, only two other passengers occupied the entire carriage. They were straining to find the right balance between concern for my plight and outright hysterics at it, seeming to settle for wide grins and raised eyebrows and, bless them, managing not to laugh (which is more than I can say for my wife when she found out what had happened via a rudimentary telephone message). The girls would have a very cosy journey without the intrusion of pleb-class passenger noise.
I, on the other hand, would be sitting with my girls until the next stop - Plymouth - a 25-minute journey. Okay, I was in First Class, but I couldn't quite manage to see or feel the benefit of that at the time. My only consolation was to be spending another 25 minutes with my girls, albeit under unusual circumstances. Oh, and crossing the Tamar bridge by train - the first, and hopefully last time I would do that - except for the return journey of course, but you know what I mean.
So, I waved my girls goodbye, spent 45 minutes in the grey, perfunctory environs of Plymouth train station, sipping at an over-priced latte and caught the return train which, I noted, was liberally sprinkled with RESERVED SEATS!
Sunday 15 August 2010
Flying ants can't fly...
There must be a couple of dozen ant colonies dotted around our 'estate'. Most of them the kind of ant we all see - the little blackish ones. Some are a reddy orange colour ( are they worse? ). And this time of year seems to be the point at which the blighters grow wings and decide to fly off somewhere. All at once. All in the space of about 15 minutes.
I was happily satisfying my hunger pangs with a marvellous ham, lettuce and whole-grain mustard mayo roll when my wife, who had lovingly created said roll, drew my attention to the porch of Cosy Nook. The porch is of a wooden construction, painted a glorious Windsor blue and was gleaming in the August sun. Also gleaming were the wings of several hundred 'flying' ants who had clearly decided that the porch made a splendid take-off point. Without my glasses, this mass exodus may have appeared as an overflow of water from the gutter, spilling in a rippled flow down the side of the porch. But my glasses were in place, bringing the horror of a legion of flying ants clearly into focus.
My wife, determined to sort this predicament out, busied herself in the outbuilding, searching, hands a-blur for something chemical with which to obliterate the evil flow, while I ducked inside for my camera. I ducked out and ducked in again after realising my memory card was still jammed into the card reader on my computer. And by the time we'd both organised ourselves; me with camera switched on, lens cap removed, setting on 'close up'; Karon with some Nippon product or other in her hand - they'd gone. All of them.
Later that day, we experienced yet another colony of ants setting up a mini Heathrow, right next to where I was perfectly barbecuing some sausages (plain pork for the wife; pork, basil, pepper and olive for me - nom nom nom ). These eejuts were smaller yet far more irritating. Those of the Windsor blue porch simply launched themselves off into the air with, much like Easyjet passengers, little idea of where they were going but up they went, high into the sky and away. Those of the barbecue area equally had little idea of where they were going but insisted on alighting on me, in my beer or on my fabulous food.
Now, when your average fly does that it's only natural to attempt to kill the bloody thing, n'est ce pas? And as devious, surreptitious or downright cunning one's efforts are, ninety-nine times out of a hundred it'll clear off - just as you're within an inch of a successful kill. Also, ninety-nine times out of a hundred one ends up breaking, spilling, knocking over or flicking six feet whatever it was that the damned fly was wiping its feet on at the time.
Not so with your flying ant. It's hopeless. You could take a run up in slow-motion a la Chariots of Fire, bring your poised flicking finger down at a nudge under snail's pace, daub a protester's placard with 'Look out ant, I'm going to flick you into oblivion' and present it to the muppet with your non-flicking hand, yell at it to get the hell out of the way and still have approximately five minutes in which to line up your shot. Ping! It's gone. Doesn't even make any effort towards an escape. It just lands on you, which seems to throw it into a whole world of confusion, turns round a couple of times and then starts a drunken crawl. What's the point?
I'm no naturalist. There's obviously some great reason for it in the mysteriously fascinating world of nature - easy pickings for hungry swallows? Whatever it is, I wish they wouldn't do it when I'm enjoying a beer in the sun and a deliciously turned out sausage or two...
I was happily satisfying my hunger pangs with a marvellous ham, lettuce and whole-grain mustard mayo roll when my wife, who had lovingly created said roll, drew my attention to the porch of Cosy Nook. The porch is of a wooden construction, painted a glorious Windsor blue and was gleaming in the August sun. Also gleaming were the wings of several hundred 'flying' ants who had clearly decided that the porch made a splendid take-off point. Without my glasses, this mass exodus may have appeared as an overflow of water from the gutter, spilling in a rippled flow down the side of the porch. But my glasses were in place, bringing the horror of a legion of flying ants clearly into focus.
My wife, determined to sort this predicament out, busied herself in the outbuilding, searching, hands a-blur for something chemical with which to obliterate the evil flow, while I ducked inside for my camera. I ducked out and ducked in again after realising my memory card was still jammed into the card reader on my computer. And by the time we'd both organised ourselves; me with camera switched on, lens cap removed, setting on 'close up'; Karon with some Nippon product or other in her hand - they'd gone. All of them.
Later that day, we experienced yet another colony of ants setting up a mini Heathrow, right next to where I was perfectly barbecuing some sausages (plain pork for the wife; pork, basil, pepper and olive for me - nom nom nom ). These eejuts were smaller yet far more irritating. Those of the Windsor blue porch simply launched themselves off into the air with, much like Easyjet passengers, little idea of where they were going but up they went, high into the sky and away. Those of the barbecue area equally had little idea of where they were going but insisted on alighting on me, in my beer or on my fabulous food.
Now, when your average fly does that it's only natural to attempt to kill the bloody thing, n'est ce pas? And as devious, surreptitious or downright cunning one's efforts are, ninety-nine times out of a hundred it'll clear off - just as you're within an inch of a successful kill. Also, ninety-nine times out of a hundred one ends up breaking, spilling, knocking over or flicking six feet whatever it was that the damned fly was wiping its feet on at the time.
Not so with your flying ant. It's hopeless. You could take a run up in slow-motion a la Chariots of Fire, bring your poised flicking finger down at a nudge under snail's pace, daub a protester's placard with 'Look out ant, I'm going to flick you into oblivion' and present it to the muppet with your non-flicking hand, yell at it to get the hell out of the way and still have approximately five minutes in which to line up your shot. Ping! It's gone. Doesn't even make any effort towards an escape. It just lands on you, which seems to throw it into a whole world of confusion, turns round a couple of times and then starts a drunken crawl. What's the point?
I'm no naturalist. There's obviously some great reason for it in the mysteriously fascinating world of nature - easy pickings for hungry swallows? Whatever it is, I wish they wouldn't do it when I'm enjoying a beer in the sun and a deliciously turned out sausage or two...
I dropped some cherry tomatoes - should I pick them up?
Before I get to the point of this blog, I need to paint a picture...
We live in the verdant Cornish countryside, overlooking a weaving valley, atop a small hill in a 170-year-old cottage that stands solid due to its four-foot-thick stone walls. There are twelve neighbouring properties, each of which feeds and waters at least one cat. Cats do what cats do: sleep, prowl, preen, hunt, spray what they consider to be their territory (although the Land Registry says it's ours) - and poop. They also test each other's bravado - usually at night, always loudly and more often than not, right underneath our bedroom window.
Birds, it seems of almost every British variety, have made their presence known if not in aerobatic display then in song. I say song - most are beautiful, uplifting, relaxing, delightful. Some are simply annoying. Crows. Baby buzzards. They glide by, high up in the sky. Or they swoop and flit closer to the ground. Or they crash about in fumbling amorousness on the telephone wires ( Wood Pigeons ). And birds do what birds do - poop. Bats. There are long disused lime kilns at the bottom of the hill in which we suspect an indefinable number (cos we're certainly not going in there to find out) of bats suspend themselves during daylight hours. They entertain with marvellous swooping displays at and after dusk - and, it can't be ignored - poop.
We are cosseted by woodland, bushes, shrubs and weeds that have clearly burrowed through the Earth's crust to imbibe from an underground lake containing an ocean-going-liner-full of plant-specific steroids.Within our legally defined boundaries of ludicrous plant growth , a billion insects and arachnids crawl, wriggle, scurry, flutter, fly, hop and slither - yes, slither. More than one slow worm has surprised the wife. At night, particularly a wet night, slugs and snails, to the background orchestrations of a greater variety of grasshoppers and crickets as I have ever seen, make achingly slow progress from A to B : some the size of a Cuban cigar. It is not possible to go for an evening stroll without crunching down on an unfortunate snail or squelching down on a Cuban cigar (unfortunate or not, who cares?).
It's brief, but I hope that has described our location. 'Rural' doesn't seem quite emphatic enough. To us, it feels more than rural - Jurassic perhaps. But then we've never lived anywhere quite like this before. The cottage is tiny. So small that our American-style refrigerator ( you have to say 'refrigerator' after 'American-style' ) has no place in our kitchen. It has been relegated to the stone outbuilding. This is not as inconvenient as at first it may seem - the outbuilding is a mere eight feet or so from our front door which leads straight into the kitchen. I was bathed in the light of our fridge ( allowed as 'American-style' not mentioned ) gathering salad items. Happy with an armful, I left the outbuilding carrying lettuce, peppers, coleslaw, spring onions and... cherry tomatoes. And this brings me to the point of this blog...
I DROPPED THE CHERRY TOMATOES! An entire punnet! They leapt from my arm, totally unaided by me, leaving their chums behind without a care.The feeble plastic punnet hit the ground as my eyes widened and my jaw began to drop. It exploded in a profusion of tiny red bouncing bombs. Choice words expressing my dismay left my lips and floated off down the valley. I stared in disbelief as they rolled off in all directions. Some made it as far as the greenhouse, some the garden gate. Others, seemingly less interested in the potential for new life, simply lodged under the front doorstep. I was dumbstruck. I carried the remaining salad items into the kitchen less they should decide to follow, setting them down safely on the worktop.
Should I go out there and pick them up? The sweet little red fruits, so vital an element to my salad, the essential accompaniment to my smoked chicken risotto. Those lovely juicy balls bursting with flavour that have rolled and gambolled over the ground? Ground that has been pooped on by birds, bats, cats and insects. Ground that has been slimed by snails and Cuban cigars. Ground that has been lolled over by lazy toads. Ground that has seen incontinent mice and shrews dart and swerve in avoidance of a feline swiping paw. Ground that has borne the footfall of residents and visitors carrying God knows what on their footwear. Should I?
I didn't. I left them. My salad would be incomplete. Mild disappointment. Not only in the flavour and colour so obviously lacking but in the effective loss of the 82p that they had cost - not forgetting the time invested in carefully selecting them from the several hundred on display at Morrison's. I had only benefited from four of the little chaps on the previous evening. That left twenty or so sniggering quietly in the garden. I could have gone out there to pick them up. I could. But it was dark and I didn't fancy a tomato hunt by torchlight.
My only consolation is that maybe, just maybe, one or two of them might find the conditions in the garden conducive to reproduction. Their tiny seeds could find their way to accommodating soil, grow big and strong and compensate me for their outrageous behaviour with a vine full of their offspring. That is, if I could ever find them in the garden so well disguised with trees, weeds, bushes, shrubs, flowers, firs, roses...
We live in the verdant Cornish countryside, overlooking a weaving valley, atop a small hill in a 170-year-old cottage that stands solid due to its four-foot-thick stone walls. There are twelve neighbouring properties, each of which feeds and waters at least one cat. Cats do what cats do: sleep, prowl, preen, hunt, spray what they consider to be their territory (although the Land Registry says it's ours) - and poop. They also test each other's bravado - usually at night, always loudly and more often than not, right underneath our bedroom window.
Birds, it seems of almost every British variety, have made their presence known if not in aerobatic display then in song. I say song - most are beautiful, uplifting, relaxing, delightful. Some are simply annoying. Crows. Baby buzzards. They glide by, high up in the sky. Or they swoop and flit closer to the ground. Or they crash about in fumbling amorousness on the telephone wires ( Wood Pigeons ). And birds do what birds do - poop. Bats. There are long disused lime kilns at the bottom of the hill in which we suspect an indefinable number (cos we're certainly not going in there to find out) of bats suspend themselves during daylight hours. They entertain with marvellous swooping displays at and after dusk - and, it can't be ignored - poop.
We are cosseted by woodland, bushes, shrubs and weeds that have clearly burrowed through the Earth's crust to imbibe from an underground lake containing an ocean-going-liner-full of plant-specific steroids.Within our legally defined boundaries of ludicrous plant growth , a billion insects and arachnids crawl, wriggle, scurry, flutter, fly, hop and slither - yes, slither. More than one slow worm has surprised the wife. At night, particularly a wet night, slugs and snails, to the background orchestrations of a greater variety of grasshoppers and crickets as I have ever seen, make achingly slow progress from A to B : some the size of a Cuban cigar. It is not possible to go for an evening stroll without crunching down on an unfortunate snail or squelching down on a Cuban cigar (unfortunate or not, who cares?).
It's brief, but I hope that has described our location. 'Rural' doesn't seem quite emphatic enough. To us, it feels more than rural - Jurassic perhaps. But then we've never lived anywhere quite like this before. The cottage is tiny. So small that our American-style refrigerator ( you have to say 'refrigerator' after 'American-style' ) has no place in our kitchen. It has been relegated to the stone outbuilding. This is not as inconvenient as at first it may seem - the outbuilding is a mere eight feet or so from our front door which leads straight into the kitchen. I was bathed in the light of our fridge ( allowed as 'American-style' not mentioned ) gathering salad items. Happy with an armful, I left the outbuilding carrying lettuce, peppers, coleslaw, spring onions and... cherry tomatoes. And this brings me to the point of this blog...
I DROPPED THE CHERRY TOMATOES! An entire punnet! They leapt from my arm, totally unaided by me, leaving their chums behind without a care.The feeble plastic punnet hit the ground as my eyes widened and my jaw began to drop. It exploded in a profusion of tiny red bouncing bombs. Choice words expressing my dismay left my lips and floated off down the valley. I stared in disbelief as they rolled off in all directions. Some made it as far as the greenhouse, some the garden gate. Others, seemingly less interested in the potential for new life, simply lodged under the front doorstep. I was dumbstruck. I carried the remaining salad items into the kitchen less they should decide to follow, setting them down safely on the worktop.
Should I go out there and pick them up? The sweet little red fruits, so vital an element to my salad, the essential accompaniment to my smoked chicken risotto. Those lovely juicy balls bursting with flavour that have rolled and gambolled over the ground? Ground that has been pooped on by birds, bats, cats and insects. Ground that has been slimed by snails and Cuban cigars. Ground that has been lolled over by lazy toads. Ground that has seen incontinent mice and shrews dart and swerve in avoidance of a feline swiping paw. Ground that has borne the footfall of residents and visitors carrying God knows what on their footwear. Should I?
I didn't. I left them. My salad would be incomplete. Mild disappointment. Not only in the flavour and colour so obviously lacking but in the effective loss of the 82p that they had cost - not forgetting the time invested in carefully selecting them from the several hundred on display at Morrison's. I had only benefited from four of the little chaps on the previous evening. That left twenty or so sniggering quietly in the garden. I could have gone out there to pick them up. I could. But it was dark and I didn't fancy a tomato hunt by torchlight.
My only consolation is that maybe, just maybe, one or two of them might find the conditions in the garden conducive to reproduction. Their tiny seeds could find their way to accommodating soil, grow big and strong and compensate me for their outrageous behaviour with a vine full of their offspring. That is, if I could ever find them in the garden so well disguised with trees, weeds, bushes, shrubs, flowers, firs, roses...
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