Wednesday, October 25, 2006

Streaming.

As I sit here clutching the AGA it is near impossible to determine which is streaming most, my nose or the rain down the window pane. It is obvious that to fly any where in the world without suffering the inevitable consequence of re-breathing secondhand air, laden with more than its fair share of viruses is a near impossibility.
The sunny week in Tunisia is virtually expunged from memory, liquidated by balm impregnated tissues, Lemsip decongestants and the odd paracetamol.

Difficult to recall the wonderful and productive conversation with the camel driver in the outskirts of the Sahara, satisfying because as French was also his second language, he is the only person on the globe who speaks slowly enough for me to understand him! An occasion enhanced by a fellow travellers need for money, occasioning a trip to an ATM, on the outskirts of the desert itself. Surreal. Eating lunch in "Luke Skywalker's" house ditto, surreal.

Happily the Roman ampitheatre at Jhem has little of the crushing atmosphere of misery felt in the Coliseum in Rome, presumably because concerts are performed there, the stone is a light sunny colour and the sky was very blue.

I am also fortunate to have made the discovery that the action of fresh dates on the human gut is roughly comparable to that of syrup of figs!!

And so to bed, hot Ribena in one hand, a box of hankies in the other.

Monday, October 09, 2006

Read all of these instructions before starting the job.

Never again will I consider it warranted to malign Ikea instructions. By comparison with the flimsy leaflet which accompanied the "Pull Cord Swish" curtain rail, they represent the acme of precision and clarity.

After labouring for sixty minutes, taking an hour out for lunch, rest and recuperation and then continuing our intensive efforts for a further hour, it was disconcerting to accept that we were still a long way from actually hanging any curtains on the aforementioned apparatus.

The diagrams thoughtfully supplied for our assistance were as much use as the proverbial chocolate fireguard. How in the name of any Deity is it possible to have every bracket for each hook made of five separate moulded pieces each of which showed a grim determination at worst to explode and at best not to click smoothly into their appropriate niche.

Even as your hopes begin to rise and you fondly imagine that success is within your grasp, the necessity of working on the top platform of the all too wobbly steps, with both arms above your head, the screw driver clenched in your teeth, frantically attempting to catch a dislodged vital part is enough to precipitate an MI.

To discover, barely four hours after the starting pistol, when within a gnats whisker of hooking on the curtains, that there are not enough runners and that in order to put more on you have to access a screw which is now cunningly concealed on the back of the rack, thus meaning you have to dis-assemble the bloody thing is simply proof that it was designed, and I use that word very loosely, by a lobotomised rabbit.

Sunday, October 01, 2006

The turning of the tide.

If one of your guests casually mentions that when they flushed the loo bubbling sounds were emitted by the bath plug hole, ignore it at your peril. If history repeats itself, it could well be the precursor to a cumulative series of deeply unpleasant events which will end with you being £262 pounds closer to poverty when the "Rescue Rod" drain clearance service van finally drives off into the night.

For fear that you may be of a sensitive persuasion dear reader I will spare you the most gross images of the last four hours but it will be some time before I again look at my rose bed with unmitigated pleasure. It's geography is unhappily close to the dank pit where the most savage events occurred.

The rainfall being nothing short of torrential it seemed only courteous to invite the two hapless men into the kitchen whilst I rummaged for my credit card, but rarely have I felt such an unwelcoming host.

I felt a sudden surge of empathy with Elizabeth I who was apparently very attached to her flushing water closet and its ability to remove the odour of odure from her vicinity.

Despite the price of petrol, the exponential growth of health and safety directives, the weight of Sunday papers and the Stonehenge nature of Cherie Blair's teeth, I find that I am quite content to live in the 21st Century