Purveyor of Bollocks to the Crowned Heads of Europe
Friday, 4 July 2014
Out of my life forever
The little blue graph-line to the left of my dashboard showed a dramatic and unexplained up-turn a couple of weeks ago, then it began a plunge downward forming a pleasing mountain-shape, levelled out for about a week and is now heading toward the bottom of the screen.
I have already been told to stop worrying about it and take no notice (...if you can treat those two impostors just the same...), but being right in the corner of my eye, it gets to me. A squiggly blue line actually gets to me. It's pathetic.
I met the gang plus a couple of two, new friends outside our Carluccio restaurant last night, and who should be seated next to us but Paddy Ashdown. This may not be of any consequence to anyone who has not studied British politics over the last 30 years - in fact, it isn't of much consequence to me either.
All I will say is that he is now more like his Spitting Image puppet than the puppet ever was like him - oh, and he smokes cigarettes!
Horseflies and poverty aside, I am really enjoying this classic British Summer. The gentle rain which has put temporary halts to the cricket matches on the village green has at least ensured that the green lives up to its name when play resumes.
But the season - like life in general - is not without unpleasantness.
A couple of weeks ago, I noticed a lot of flies buzzing round something in the huge bank of nettles outside my workshop, and further investigation revealed a black, plastic bin-liner.
I got a long stick and gingerly lifted a corner of the bag, then my heart missed a beat when I saw a large rib-cage with bits of rotting flesh hanging from it.
Ever since a man swung from a nearby beam undiscovered for a couple of weeks of hot Summer a few years ago, I have been a little jittery about more death in our secluded part of the countryside, so I suspected foul play immediately.
Well it turned out to be extremely foul play, or at least the aftermath of it, made fouler by the warm weather.
Someone had considerately dumped the remains of a village hog-roast in my undergrowth, rather than put it in their own dustbin or re-cycling unit to be turned into compost.
For the last few days, my attention has been diverted from it by the horseflies, but yesterday the stench became so overpowering, that I plucked up the courage to drag it into another part of the yard, from where I hope it will be dragged further by foxes, badgers or dustmen.
Try as I might, I just cannot get to grips with the mentality of people who think that it is easier to take something to a beauty-spot to dump it, rather than utilise the facilities which they pay for with their rates.
Out of their lives forever, but into someone else's. It is impossible to 'throw something away'. It is your duty to just deal with it.