Pa's Tale

The moment Paris left, I started this very nasty cold. But I did mountains of laundry. On Thursday I went to golf, looking for sympathy. Didn't get any.

Then I discovered that the Solo's golf trip to Spain for New Year was sold out. So I signed up for a trip to Turkey at the end of February. Everything included - golf, food, snacks, drinks (local stuff, but I'm not too fussy as long as it's alcoholic) - so something to look forward to.

Friday came, and I forced myself out of my sick bed to stagger up to the golf club. The dozen blokes waiting for a game heard me croaking and coughing and suggested that I went out first in a one-ball. But no. I went out as normal and took the money, thanks to an excellent short game. Eight pars (Tiger would look for that many birdies, but that's what he is paid handsomely to do), but so unwell that I couldn't force down the last of my pint. I said I wasn't well!

No interest in food, but I had to go to the supermarket to replenish my empty fridge. Then there was England and Wales on the box, losing at rugby to Australia and New Zealand. Not madly exciting. But Burnley got a 3-3 at Man City. That's good!

What a bore I am. OK, still am. Is it what they call "loss of affect"? I can't even go to bed early because millions of quidsworth of fireworks are being exploded in the neighbourhood. I don't know why they don't all go the the Heath to watch the spectacular show put on the the council to curry favour with the ratepayers.

OK. I've made the token posting, and I will shortly take the LemSip route to bed. My cold is quite debilitating. Happily I can feel the waves of sympathy coming over the ether. Thanks, folks.

...but it's over now, so I can sag back into do-nowt mode.

Paris and Bristol arrived on Friday, by which time I had played golf, collected cake and fruit salad from M&S, and made a lasagne. There is more boasting to come.

Brighton added to the numbers on Saturday. After my trip to Sainsbury's,
there was a potage bonne femme (otherwise known as "summer soup" - summer this and summer that). At some point, Rick went off to shop and advised me that, acting on information received as to the only thing I fancied for my birthday, he had taken the liberty to buy me a replacement built-in oven, on behalf of the siblings.

Then North London arrived, accompanied, happily, by Frank and Laurie, whom we haven't seen for four years. My grog supply took a merciless beating while I got the steak and kidney pies in the oven. Fifteen sat down to eat, by which time I was beyond worrying about whether there was enough.

A happy evening. Pumpkins were carved and illuminated (one left out at the front to indicate treats were available). There were fireworks, and a launching of paper hot air balloons, and a bit of music. Then, when everybody was still asleep - every room in the house was occupied - at 7.40 on Sunday morning the doorbell rang. The oven was being delivered. End of sleep and any thoughts of a lie-in. But my competent sons took out the old and wired in the new, and by 9.30 I had a new oven! (A side note - we put the old oven outside - 56kg of scrap, and by next morning it had disappeared.)

So we tested the new oven with a roast lamb Sunday lunch, while the rain teemed down outside.

Then it became Monday. It was cool but sunny on the golf course, and I played OK, while Paris went up to London Town. They went out to Helen for supper later. Quiet chez moi!

On Tuesday I went to see the vampire at Guy's Hospital; next week I will find out what the PSA count is. And we watched the entertaining last half hour of ManU's match. Some stayed up to learn about black holes from a BBC programme. I went to bed.

Paris left at ten this morning. I did some laundry then went up to the golf club (by bus, of course) for a couple of beers and the Veterans' AGM. I seem to have missed lunch, so an early supper beckons, and a bit of football on the box.

The snag about having a new oven is that it will expect to be cleaned, a function I haven't performed for many years. Perhaps a nice young Polish girl...?

Too busy to reflect on the endless incompetence of British governments. How I will play tomorrow is the main question. And whether I dare watch Liverpool.

Here are four names which make me go "Oh no, I'm gloomy enough": Coldplay, Elbow, Richard Hawley, and, new to me, Doves. I came across the last-named on a BBC thing about electric something, and the Doves (Wilmslow lads, Helen and Rick might be amused to hear) did a lively set with a Bulgarian choir. In fact, I quite enjoyed the show, so I downloaded some of their stuff. Elbowish. Enough said.

But I watched an excellent show on Sky Arts which was part of a guitar festival - Crossroads Chicago. (Tom - look away now) Clapton was the main man on the set I saw, and he had Jeff Beck, Robbie Robertson and Stevie Winwood with him. They all sounded fresh and dynamic. I might even buy the DVD. Blind Faith stuff is still good, you know.

Now here's a thing. Fleetwood Mac are back on the road, and a five-star review in the paper today. "In two and a half hours, there isn't a dull moment", it says in my paper. Who says 70's music is passé (apart from Tom)?

Château Dubois is building up to La Grande Arrivée. There is food and drink, and a little to spare. The bad news is that lots of rain is forecast for Sunday. On verra.

The golf is still going reasonably well. All I have to do is turn my arse along with my shoulders, then rip it. Easy, really.

I was going to mention the Pope and his takeover bid for the woman-fearing homophobe wing of the CofE, but medieval church politics isn't even amusing. The blokes who have gone over will be revelling in their robes and incense flim-flam, and they are even married. There could be some jealous chaps over there.

I went to see Nursie today to have the three-monthly hormone implant stuck in my tum. There's no point in complaining: all they say is "Well, you're still alive, aren't you?" and all I can say is yes.

A little jest. A dyslexic woman had been to the doctor for some tests. She was called to tell her that the test results were in, and that the doctor wanted to see her. So she went in, and the doctor said "You have acute angina". She blushed and said "Well, thank you doctor!"

More golf tomorrow while the Paris mob are on the road, then I shall devote myself to my guests. Though I reserve the right to slip off for a nap if I need one.

The Guardian continues to impress. The stuff about the dodgy oil traders dumping toxic waste in Africa, then getting an injunction to prevent the paper from saying that an MP had tabled a question in the Commons about it was excellent. The equally dodgy lawyers got a black eye, and big questions were aired about legal process.

Today, the paper is telling us about the Met Police's system for keeping on computer details of people (and their cars) who have gone to demos against e.g. arms trading, coal-fired power plants etc. It starts to sound like the old East German Stasi. They'll be asking us to inform on our neighbours next. I wonder which politicians authorise this kind of thing, or more worryingly, if they don't, how does the Met get away with it?

You thought big sport was dodgy, but atleast it doesn't impinge on civil liberties. And Liverpool gave ManU a seeing to.

And small sport's OK. Fifteen of us went out this morning, and your humble correspondent won. By virtue of a forty-foot putt on the 18th. You have to make these moves when it matters. And a tax-free ten quid is important in these troubled times.

There is a very busy week coming up, but I have thought about it so much that it is now looking pretty straightforward. I roasted a chicken last night, so I will have a chuck mayo salad next, there will be curried remains, and the carcase will provide stock for a minestrone on Sunday. Then no more chicken for a month.

This weather is very nice. I even had laundry on the line yesterday. My action plan has no entry for tomorrow, so I may have to play golf.

...qui,moi? But some people will be pleased to know that I have fully planned next weekend's grub, give or take the odd snack. And that I promise to find some time to push a hoover and duster round the place.

There has been much hoo-hah about Griffin appearing on a BBC program. I don't know what he wants for himself (it surely can't be political power), but I do worry that there seems to be a self-appointed collection (can't call it a group) of English people who claim the exclusive right to have a democratic opinion. Griffin might be a nasty piece of work - the media tell me so, but I don't know because I have never met him - but there are a lot of English people who share some of his views. I have some opinions that would get me barred from reading the Guardian, but don't we all? The democratic concept is looking a bit threadbare these days. How can it seem to be such a good idea that it must be imposed on people of a totally different social background? Are we still trying to leave our footprints in the aftermath of empire? Britain has only been practising it (democracy, I mean) for about eighty years, whatever the received wisdom about Magna Carta and Parliament and topping difficult kings.

No politics for me. But I read a nice bit about a group of rich Germans who think they should be subjected to a wealth tax. They have quite enough to live on, thank you, and feel that they should make a greater contribution to the national kitty.

You don't hear many rich Brit slobs thinking like that.

Now where was I? I went to Woolwich to get my life certificate signed by the Electoral Register Office. Quite reasonably, my French pension payers need to be reassured that I am still alive. And I went on the bus, and I did some shopping (for extremely cheap clothes). And I got a haircut from my Kurdish barber. He insists that it must always be done with scissors only, a notion too technical for me.

The house next door is to let/for sale, and I have just seen the people who fancied buying my house a couple of years ago, and they are still looking to buy. Am I open to offers?

My sister Christine called today. They are off on their three-month trip to Hong Kong and Australia to inspect the grandkids. A bit of a marathon.

BBC web headline today: "Man denies sawing off wife's head." Well he would, wouldn't he. Deny it, I mean.

Warmed up magret de canard boulangère ce soir. And a big shop tomorrow.