I think this blog is getting a bit political so here’s a little light relief:
Mavis (aged 5) and I were on our way back from a school shoe buying trip to Duckchester. We had just managed to get the shoes before the shops shut and as a result were stuck in heavy traffic.
“Oh dear” I complained “We’ve caught the rush hour”
“Why is it called the rush hour” enquired Mavis.
“Because the roads are very busy with all the workers wanting to get home” I explained.
Mavis paused for a minute deep in thought and then said in a puzzled voice “But they’re not rushing”
I had a go at being religious once, not so long ago; but the burden of being middle class with all its attendant feelings of guilt meant that the added responsibility to God made each decision a nightmare: Don’t pass on the other side of the street, even if you might catch fleas and give them to your children; turn the other cheek, even when the bastard has just cut you up at the traffic lights and almost killed you. I found I couldn’t even put my shopping trolley in the trolley park without reorganising the blithering trolley park so that all the trolleys were parked like with like and none of them had stray shopping lists or empty packaging from a toddler’s lunch, left at the bottom. No, I just didn’t know where to draw the line. I apologise to those of you with strong religious convictions but to me, being middle class is a bit like having a religion. The influence of peer pressure is so much more powerful than that of an allegedly all seeing all knowing Deity. Continue reading On Recycling
Just thought you would like to know that the above word made not a jot of difference to my page hits in the trampoline article. I am now putting it in the title to see what happens.
Whiz and I settled down one evening a few weeks ago to watch the two Ronnies who have recently returned to our screens. We were a little disappointed in the show and both remarked at how old Ronnie Barker looked and seemed. It was a little sad to see the energetic Fletch. looking so gaunt. You would think that a man who has dedicated his life to making the public laugh would, at the age of only 75, seem serene or at least lively.
Later that evening we were treated to the vision of President Mugabe dancing some kind of tribal war ritual at the incredible age of 80. He didn’t look a day over 60 and had more energy than most 30 year olds I know!
Who says crime doesn’t pay!
Spring appears to have gained confidence here in Pebbleditch. The ringed collar dove which has woken me up at 5am every morning has either been shot, or got his oats, consequently I slept until 8.30 this morning; a good start to the day.
The prospect of a bank holiday weekend after a very busy week was very welcome. During this fortnight I have started a new job, training to be a QTA (Quite Terrible Actress, Quarrelsome Trainee Acrobat, Quality Teaching Assistant ). Work, like buses coming in threes and I have also done my editorial duty on the Pebbleditch Periodical. In addition to this, on Monday evening I found myself making a speech in front of the Annual Assembly of the Pebbleditch Parish Council explaining why the young people of the village deserve to be understood; in other words please give us help and cash. Continue reading Spring Fever