They don’t sing songs like that any more

Saturday September 6, 2008

“Weel may the Keel Row, the Keel Row, the Keel Row,” I chortled in my best English folksong voice, singing alongside a CD track by Kathleen Ferrier.

“O, weel may the keel row,
     The keel row, the keel row,
     O weel may the keel row
     That my laddie’s in.”

“Where’d you learn that?” Graham asked.

“Oh, at school, I suspect.  Sometime before Noah was a lad.”

“Impressive.”

My singing is not as impressive as that of the lady, of course, though I can see what he means.  They don’t do folk song at school these days, not at ordinary schools, they don’t.  Far too old fashioned.  And, far too musical, I suspect.

Sometimes being old enough to remember way back when is a great benefit to one’s peace of mind.

Hey ho.  They don’t sing songs like that any more.

Not a trace of cabin fever

Friday September 5, 2008

The ‘first of the Autumn storms’ came a’calling today.  Or last night, if you require accuracy.  Some wind, but mostly rain. It was raining enough at 02:30 to wake me.  And again at 03:30.  And again at 04:30, when I gave up and took me and my aching hip-bone down for a nice hot cup of soothing coffee.

And still it rained.

I played with my computer for a while, then, to the sound of rain, slipped back to bed for the rest of the night.

It was raining when I woke.

“What’s the weather doing?” Graham asked.

“Raining.”

“An all-day job, do you think?”

“Yup.  I don’t much fancy going out in it so we’ll have omelette and bread-and-butter for lunch, and chicken breast, cabbage and rice for dinner.  If that’s alright with you.”

“Yum.  I take it I’m cooking the rice?”

“You gottit.”

So, after breakfast, more playing with the computer until I came over all weary and went off for a nap, interrupted by the phone.

It was the buyer’s mortgage company, arranging for their surveyor to call Tuesday morning to carry out a 30-minute valuation.

Yippee!  We take another step towards a successful conclusion.  It seems a long time since they started their buying activities but it’s only three weeks, and they’ve been pursuing it steadily and responsibly all along.  They are using a reputable main-stream British bank for their mortgage, and that’s another very good sign.

It’s difficult, in fact, to find any negatives in the situation at all, but I just touched wood for luck, and would feel a lot happier if my keyboard were made of timber.  Just for reinforcement, you understand.

So now, just before seven in the evening, still raining, I’m feeling all mellow.  Not a trace of cabin fever.

Don’t you just hate it when that happens?

Thursday September 4, 2008

We went to Taunton today, to the foam shop, to pick up the three new cushion pads Graham had ordered for the living room sofa.  One of them was the right size.  So, we’ll be visiting Taunton again next week.

Don’t you just hate it when that happens?

Completely different but strangely familiar

Wednesday September 3, 2008

Up early and off to the dentists’ for a deep clean.  If you don’t want to read about it, skip down to ‘And now for something completely different‘.

“Rinse and spit,” she said.

I spat, and it went wrong, and the sleeve of my shirt along with much else was covered in red stuff.

“You must admit I’m a good bleeder,” I said.

She muttered something in German that I truly didn’t catch, and mopped me off.

“Thanks,” I said.  “I’m often told that I’m not fit to be taken anywhere.”

It was a very good job well done, and my teeth not only look all clean again but feel smooth and good.  The gums are another matter.

I can’t say I enjoy my sessions with dental hygienists, even the really skilled and professional ones like the one I had today.  I will say I’d rather have teeth out any day, with or without anaesthetic.

Anyway.  The verdict on my gums was not encouraging.  They’ve shrunk and withered, and even though they’re pink and puffy again, it ain’t gonna last.  I’m back to the dentist proper on Monday, to have two top teeth out and my denture adjusted accordingly.  I’m seriously thinking of throwing myself on her mercy and asking to have all my teeth out, every last one, and a complete new set of gleaming new dentures installed top and bottom.  It used to be called a Glaswegian 21st birthday present.

My poor gums and teeth are past their sell-by date, and it’s time they were put out of their misery.  If the good lady will not cooperate, and I don’t expect her to, I shall take the day’s treatment and then leave the whole issue to rest until after we’ve relocated.  It’ll not cost too much;  one of my large back teeth at the bottom, fixed over 35 years ago, is made of solid gold, and is worth a small fortune these days.

And now for something completely different

Having come to the conclusion that the blog format doesn’t really work for me I’ve taken the first faltering steps towards reinstating the old ‘writing man’ website.  If you’re in the habit of poking about over there, at http://www.oldgreypoet.com, it’s going to look a bit peculiar until I’m done.  Nothing to worry about–I’ll make a proper announcement here and to the notify lists when it’s time to switch, and leave all this stuff spinning away here until wordpress.com gets fed up with me.

Plonkipoo of the Luberon

Tuesday September 2, 2008

It’s a long drive from Bridgwater to Minehead.  Not in distance, but in time.  The narrow road winds and wiggles its way from town to village to town, single carriageway all the way, and shared by commercial, holiday and domestic traffic alike, with no rules of precedence.

The best way to tackle it is to take along a good deal of patience and humour, and a roll of Trebor’s Extra-Strong Peppermints–180 calories a roll.

I generally reckon the Minehead run to take about five peppermints, where a roll contains perhaps a dozen (who’s counting).  Not a lot of calories in five of them.

So, armed with mints, patience and good humour, along with a huge pack of signed and sealed documents we set off to Minehead at about 11:00, and pulled in to the back yard of the solicitors shortly after 12:00.  We got the friendly receptionist to witness our signatures on a crucial transfer document, handed over the whole lot, and made our way into the town.

“It’s treat time for lunch,” I said.

“Alright.  Just this once.”

We took our lunch in a promenade café, which was a mistake.  Oh, the food was of fair quality–I had sausage, egg, chips and beans, while Graham had fried haddock, chips and peas–and the price reasonable.  The place is uninspiring, though.  Cramped, and filled with holidaymakers discussing holidays. Years and years of tedious, British holidays.  It was cramped in that peculiar British manner where they fill the floor with an optimum number of tables and chairs, then add one more for luck and another for greed.  So you sit cheek-by-jowl, thigh-by-thigh with people you don’t know and probably wouldn’t want to know. I hate that.  I need a bit of space about me at the best of times, and especially when I’m trying to enjoy my meal.

Then, home again, calling in at the Minehead Tesco’s on the way.  Not the best Tesco’s in the Kingdom, this, following the same milk-the-holidaymaker philosophy as the promenade café.

On our way through Williton I caught a glimpse of our old wooden house, sitting proud on top of the hill.

“Would you like to drive past it, one last time?” I asked.

“Nah.  We don’t live there any more.  Let’s go home.”

“Looks like we’ll not be living there much longer, either.”

“Touch wood when you say things like that.”

I rapped him on the skull, gently.

“I shall punish you for that, later.”

It’s true, though.  Driving through Somerset, even our best-known part of Somerset, has something of the faded collodion photograph about it once more.  If all goes well–and I am touching wood–we’ll not be living here much longer.  We’re happy about that.  We’re both of us all Somersetted out, I’m afraid.

Witness my camera today, as on most days, staying firmly in the bag.  Who needs collodions anyway, it seems to say.

Two very happy-making financial events for us today.  I won another £100 on the Premium Bonds and, rather more appropriate, the Government has lifted the lower band of Stamp Duty to help reduce the cost of buying a house.  This’ll save us £1,700.

“There you are,” I said.  “We’re a cool eighteen hundred quid better off than we started this morning.”

“Fine.  How shall we celebrate?”

“Just by feeling good.  I’m scraping every penny I can together in a heap to pay for the move and this’ll help enormously.”

“Boring.”

“Oh.  Go on then.  Open a bottle of that Luberon plonkipoo if you must.”

Happy eating!

Monday September 1, 2008

An uneventful day, leastways, it has been so here.  We finished the paperwork first thing and I wrote the two covering letters, one for the sale, t’other for the purchase.  The whole lot is sitting in an unsealed envelope on the kitchen counter waiting for a courier run. Unsealed so’s to allow for those last minute checks and the witness signature.

Other than that I gawped at the TV news.  It’s hard to grasp all the stuff that’s going on here in the UK, in Europe, and abroad.  A whole lot of stuff is going on, that’s for sure.  Makes our small problems look… small.

Graham has decided to make a bean goulash this evening so I was sent out to buy the ingredients we didn’t have in the store.  I was astonished to find we had no paprika.  I used to use a lot of it at one time.

Sainsbury’s had a good offer on a large pack of peppers, red and green, so I bought one, saying that I’ll use the surplus tomorrow to roast with red onions, shallots, large tomatoes and sliced parsnip.  Add loads of olive oil and a couple of chicken breasts, basil and oregano, and you don’t really need much else for a satisfying meal, served with crispy bread.  I’ve no idea how he’s going to tackle the goulash but he likes cooking with beans so I’m happy to wait.  Wonderful what a bit of surreptitious work with the back of a fork on the plate will do to beans, especially if you can sneak a tiny dab of butter and a sprinkle of pepper into the mix while the cook isn’t watching.

Happy eating!

What else could you do?

Sunday August 31, 2008

So.  We got through August, damply.  Actually, being fair, August here generally is pretty damp, and it’s not as if we’ve not had some fine sunny days to break the monotony.

We’ve finished off the house sale and purchase documents and are planning to take the bundle over to Sally’s office tomorrow or the day after for signature witnessing and safe hand-over.  She’ll not be there but at least the pile will be back on her desk ready for pushing around the chain so soon as she’s caught her breath.  She does have a couple of back-up people to take the work on in her absence but we don’t know how they’ve been instructed.

That will just about do it for the business, I think.  It’s likely that, if the deal is going to go through to exchange of contracts it’ll be done by the end of September, with completion by the end of October.  If it doesn’t happen then we’ll just plonk this house back on the market and await developments.

No point in worrying about things over which you have no control.

Catching up on news the only things I’ve missed reporting are medical ones.  Boring.  I’ve seen my G.P. to start out on a programme of statin and/or diuretic change to get me away from the ones that can cause gynocop abnormal breast swelling.  The first step is to change from Lipostat 80mg to Simvastatin 40mg.  It takes three months for the effect of a change to reflect reliably in cholesterol readings so it’s likely that, if we are to move to Wales, I shall present an interesting case to some unsuspecting doctor in Neath.  The other, less amusing development was the arrival yesterday of my self-test kit for colon problems.  I’ll not bother you with the less than savoury detail on that one.

Interestingly, I tapped the G.P. for anything else I can do to help with my weight/size reduction programme.  He says that, given my inability to do much in the way of exercise, it comes down to calorie counting.  He says I should keep the count down to 2000 per day to maintain my weight, and reduce it to 1500 if I wish significantly to reduce it.  He approved of my refusal to monitor my weight in favour of a weekly waist measurement, and was impressed that I’ve managed to trim 2.5 centimetres already from the place where my waist would be if it were still there.  “You keep that up and in a year or so you’ll be back on the strait and narrow,” he said.

We shall see.  There’s a Sunday Special story going the rounds to the effect that, if you make it to 70 on a healthy life-style, you’ve a 54% chance of getting past 90.  Not good enough.  I fully intend to be around past 110 so that the King will have to send me a tedious number of birthday letters.

And, finally, I’m turning my mind back to the question of the nature and form of my poetry and journal writing.

The poetry is flowing once more, and I’m completing about one poem a week.  It’s experimental stuff, and I have nothing I wish to show just now.  Not certain that it’d be well received if I did.

The journal writing is an eternal, but I’m discontent with the form once again.  I’m not convinced that the blogging format and method suits me.  I’ve given it a good trial.  This morning, for old time’s sake, I surfed through the classic html suite on my hard disk.  It felt good.  I’ll noodle at this question before I take any action or decide what if anything to do about change or reversion.  It could be a really big project.  That said, having a large scale project to see me through the winter, past the temptation of NANOWRIMO and such, and enough to keep my head down while the days shorten and the nights grown long could be a good thing.

Unless something better comes along.

About a fortnight ago I made an honest attempt at writing a new Harry Cat story, documenting an amusing episode which involved mare’s pee and the vigorous application of Sunsilk.  Couldn’t do it.  Came out all flat and boring.  I seem, at present, not to be in story-telling mode.  It’s like as not because we’re living through a pretty intense and often amusing story ourselves at the moment.  I’ve wrapped the first draft up and stuck it in a corner of my hard disk, with a back up on my La Cie external drive.

Practically all my life for the last twenty years is on my hard disk, with backups.  I was asked not so long ago what I’d do if I lost it all.  “Do it again,” I said.  Stands to reason, does that. When you get down to it, what else could you do?

Such deliciousness

Saturday August 30, 2008

I just about finished the paper work yesterday, half-promising myself I’d round it all up today.  It was however one of those lovely, lovely nights when I go to bed at a normal, sensible hour, wake as usual five hours later with my hips promising to fill the night with screaming agony unless I get up, drink something hot and comforting while playing quietly on the computer, and then creep back for an hour or so. If I’m lucky.  But… On this occasion I slept all the way through to nine-thirty, woke feeling wonderful, cosy, bed-warm and stretchy, with not a hint of pain.

“I think this’d be a good day to go to Taunton to get those new cushion pads ordered, then,” Graham said.

“Oh. Do we have to? We really ought to finish these papers.”

“Depends on your definition of ‘have to’,” he said, his voice filled with dark menace.

“Okay, then.  I know what that means.  Let me sit and enjoy my coffee, then I’ll get myself ready.”

The road between Bridgwater and Taunton is busy at the moment, with a combination of road works and diversions making for long delays.  Graham started getting grumpy.

“Don’t be silly,” I said.  “Nothing to be done about it.  We’re comfy, cool, and there’s no reason for us to hurry. Just sit back and enjoy.”

The ‘humpfhh’ I received for that pearl of wisdom was the kind that knows I’m right, but would rather die than admit to it.

We found the foam shop and Graham entered upon a long and complicated discussion with the proprietor about the kinds of foam and padding we need to rejuvenate the seat cushions on our dear old sofa.  It was successful, the price was acceptable, and we contracted to return next week to collect them.

“Now what?” I asked when we got out into the fresh air and sunshine once more.

“Nothing, really.  I wouldn’t mind popping into the bank to deposit my final salary cheque, but other than that, we could go back home and take it easy over the weekend.”

“Fine, let’s do the bank.  Then I shall refuse to budge until I have a little brunch to make up for being dragged out so early in the morning.”

“Where do you fancy noshing?”

“How about County Stores?  We haven’t done County Stores in years.”

“Smells of mould.”

“KFC, then?”

“Smells of chicken fat.”

“Ok.  I give in.  We’ll do Subway’s again.”

It was pleasant enough, though I confess that my initial enchantment over Subway’s has faded.  When you come down to it, it’s bread rolls with a cheap filling, nothing more, nothing less.  If I have to eat bread rolls out I prefer that they taste more European than American.  Nothing wrong with American, of course, but the lighter taste of France or the Western Mediterranean suits my digestion better.  I’ve learned that La Baguette du Jour has opened a branch in Neath, close by the bus station.  I intend to become a regular customer.

Home, picking up wine and provisions for the weekend.  Graham will do his delicious spag. bog. tonight, and I intend to do steak and kidney pie, confused potatoes, cabbage greens and carrots tomorrow. 

Such deliciousness.  We deserve it, with all these papers waiting to be processed.

They’re having us on

Friday August 29, 2008

“I do believe we now have a week off from house stuff,” I said.  Sally had emailed to say that she’d just this morning checked up and down the two-transaction ‘chain’ and that everything was ‘progressing normally and satisfactorily’.  Sally went on to say she will be ‘taking a break’ next week. I replied, saying thanks, and wishing her a happy break.

We followed that with a swift call to our seller’s agent to let them know, and to inform them that we’ll not be having a formal survey.

“Great,” said Graham.  “Let’s make the most of it.”

At that moment, as though the Royal Mail was in cahoots with Sally for the sake of laughter, there came a great THUMP! from the hallway and there on the mat was a slightly tattered manilla envelope containing what could only be documents.  Lots of documents.  It was addressed to the two of us.

“Will you open it or shall I,” Graham asked.

“Oh, give it here.  I’ve done this before. Many times.”

My heart sank, but only a little and only for a moment.  The information, contract and transfer documents for both sale and purchase were revealed.  We now have all the paper work we need, and more.

“Well, at least we know that Sally’s not in a hurry to get this lot back,” Graham said, full of hope and optimism.

I thought for a moment.  “She may not be.  I want this lot read, digested, signed, sealed and digested long before next week is out.”

“Okay.  You’re right.  We’ll do it over the weekend.”

Watching the world go by

Thursday August 28, 2008

Swift as a speeding fast thing the message came back today that our buyers are delighted for us to leave our washer, dishwasher and fridge-freezer behind.  Which is good.  They’re in fine fettle but are several years old now and have no residual value;  if we end up taking them with us they’ll need to go in the garage pending a freecycle disposal and that does seem silly.

All is good and quiet on the house move, with everybody happy and pushing papers around the circuit at normal speed.

It transpires that our buyers’ solicitor, on principle, dismisses the validity of information in the HIP and so is carrying out his own searches and such.  I’m told that most solicitors have the same view.  So the £450 we paid is money down the drain;  nobody other than me has read the report, and it’s not intended for me.  This expensive compulsory document is no more than taxation without benefit to any involved person and the legislation should be repealed.  Time for one of those tedious letters to the editor, not that any good will come of it.

If we ever sell again under this stupid legislation I shall produce the HIP myself, for a fraction of the cost and using one of the DIY form sets that are freely available.  I’m sure I can do as good a job as any so-called ‘professional’.

“Tell you what,” I said, all bright and bouncy on our way for lunch in Burnham, “If we ever move again, let’s go and live in Mykonos.  You can run a bar and I’ll sit in the corner and write obscure poetry about Greek islands in the sun.”

“On one condition.”

“Go on, then, what’s that?”

“You have to cook omelettes for your living.”

“It’s a deal.”

Lunch was good, and filling, and we went for a long stroll along the prom afterwards, resting now and again as my legs ran out of oomph.  It was a grey day, with no discernible sunshine while we were out.  Even so I enjoyed watching the world go by.

“You can do a bit of practice this evening,” Graham said just now, looking over my shoulder while I am drivelling this.

“What, making a HIP?”

“No, silly.  Cooking an omelette.  I could just go an omelette for dinner.”

“You gottit.”