Freestyling and Strawberry Tarts

Well, the weather’s been rotten. Not as bad, mercifully, as that suffered by many parts of Englandshire, but depressing nonetheless. Many cricket games have been called off. Wiseman suggested I take up an indoor sport instead. “Like carpet bowls.” The day will come Mark, but it hasn’t come just yet. However, I did venture indoors for a spot of skiing a week or two ago, with my good friend Filipeedadooda. Leaving straight after work, we bombed through the rain to xscape in Glasgow, and arrived just in the nick of time for the start of the freestyle session.

Freestyle means there are a lot of unnecessary obstacles littering the piste, seriously reducing the amount of white space available for sensible skiers such as myself. I cannot include Filipideedooda in that description as she is not even sensible in shoes, never mind on skis. However, she hadn’t been skiing for a few years, having joined the Forces of Boarding Darkness a while back, and was taking it canny to start with, so we both used the strange contraptions as markers on the piste rather than objects with which to impale ourselves.

Naturally there was a high proportion of the uni-planked ones strutting their stuff, clad in varying shades of outlandish boarding gear, jumping on and off these obstacles with some success. DC, should he have been there, would’ve loved the hip hop soundtrack pumping out overhead.

On one side of the slope was a glass-fronted restaurant, the other side had a long glass-fronted bar. There were two poma tows, one on each side of the piste, which trawled you up in front of one or other of these establishments. After a few runs and tows back up each side, Filipadooda suggested we go back up the right hand side. “The snow’s better,” she reasoned. She was right. The totty on view in the restaurant was also much better than that in the bar, but I neglected to highlight this.

Today marked Tony Blair’s last day as Prime Minister in the UK. Tributes were paid by friend and foe alike. Perhaps the most touching of these came from my boss, a long-time Blair fan, who bought several boxes of cakes to celebrate his departure. Come 4pm, all that remained were two strawberry tarts.

“I couldn’t possibly eat BOTH of them,” complained Dish.

This was met with the same sceptical raised eyebrow as greeted her comment earlier this week:

“I don’t eat THAT many biscuits,” before hastily adding “In the morning.”

Finally, your help is needed. Check out fifty ways… Something to keep you occupied on a rainy day. And if you’re in Scotland, you won’t have long to wait for one of those…

Fifty ways…

So, we were listening to Paul Simon one evening, and it was noted that his song “Fifty ways to leave your lover” only actually contains FIVE. Thus:

Just slip out the back, Jack
Make a new plan, Stan
Don’t need to be coy, Roy
Hop on the bus, Gus
Drop off the key, Lee

We thought this a poor show and started coming up with some others. It would make for quite a long song, but anyway. We didn’t quite make it to 50.. including Mr Simon’s contribution we’ve got 46, 47 if you include Jen’s rather lame one at the end.

DC then made the salutary point that we might be barking up the wrong tree. We can worry about ending a relationship when we’ve got one to end…

Still, the list is below and your suggestions are welcome…

6. Send her a text, Lex
7. Catch yourself on, John
8. Get on the train, Wayne
9. Get rid of that beau, Mo
10. Stop being a slave, Dave
11. Get out while you’re still alive, Clive
12. Run for the hills, Bill
13. Time to move on, Don
14. Just take your leave, Steve
15. Find a new crew, Lou
16. Find a new lady, Adi
17. Don’t go to the altar, Walter
18. Get on your bike, Mike
19. Escape from the noose, Bruce
20. Two’s too many, Kenny
21. Find a new man, Anne
22. Time to be departin’, Martin
23. Time to pack, Mac
24. Sling your hook, Luke
25. Get on the plane, Jane
26. Take a new path, Kath
27. Wash him out of your hair, Claire
28. Hit the trail, Gail
29. Start a new story, Rory
30. Lose the pratt, Matt
31. Time to get picky, Vicky
32. Quit stallin’, Colin
33. Say goodbye, Di
34. He’s not that great, Kate
35. Change the lock, Jock
36. Move abroad, Maud
37. Lose the miss, Chris
38. Cross the sea, Dee
39. Don’t let her rant, Grant
40. Stop being a mug, Doug
41. Ride off on your Harley, Charlie
42. Don’t let her follow you, Bartholomew
43. The bus leaves at 7, Kevin
44. Find someone more cuddly, Dudley
45. Drive away in your Clio, Leo
46. Make a new start, Bart
47. Get a new phone, Joan (this was Jen’s suggestion and we didn’t think it was very good)

Lie-ins and bowel movements

Woke up on Tuesday morning at 7.50am. Jumped out of bed, suppressing expletives in various languages and pulling a muscle in my back as I did so – that one under the shoulder blade. 7.50 is the time I normally leave the house in the morning. Decided this time not to leave the house, given the distress which would have been caused to onlookers by my state of undress.

Shortly after arriving at work at 8.30 on the nose, discovered that our receptionist had also slept in when I joined her in the queue for breakfast in O’Brien’s.

The backroom staff at work have had their numbers boosted and their biscuit supply disproportionately depleted by the arrival of Dish, freshly arrivée from France and still blogging, much to everyone’s relief. Having spent a whole year picking up working practices in France, we are anticipating her going on strike at any moment, but in between spells on the picket line she will be helping the Admin Supremo in his tasks – primarily coffee-drinking and causing civil unrest. And cheerily replying “Super Dooper Doo” when asked how he is by people on the phone, shortly before ferociously devouring them for applying the wrong tax code to our invoices or some such.

Mum, meanwhile, has gone south for the summer, or at least this week, to spend time with my sister and little Maggie. Share the love, I say. It would have been rude of me to keep all of the nagging to myself for the whole year. Dad, having been notified that I would be staying with him while mum was away, immediately booked himself a week in the most expensive nursing home he could find. I fear I may have messed up the porridge production one morning during my last stay, and my dad has a long memory when it comes to the quality of his food provision. Initial reports from the nursing home have been encouraging: the desserts have been of a very high standard. In fact he almost fell out of his chair with excitement while describing them. Dad takes his desserts very seriously.

Speaking of falling out of chairs, the toilet seat at work has cracked again. Reluctant to speculate on the identity of the guilty party, I can only report that all members of staff used the facilities on the morning in question, and none reported any problems getting purchase. Nor, indeed, was any damage noted or commented on. Perhaps their circumspection can be attributed to a desire to not feature in a blog entry…

Time for bed. Don’t want to sleep in again. Angry Mac Guy describes a blog as a generic layout filled with details of the writer’s every bowel movement. Apologies if this one’s been a bit like that, I like to think it usually isn’t. Come to think of it, my blog normally has details of other people’s bowel movements. Not sure that’s any better. Ho hum…