Shorn

First off, congrats to Geoff who learned on Thursday that he's passed eight GCSEs, with pretty good grades.

On a wonderfully warm summer day today (the last?) we walked into town where I got my hair cut, and after buying a few necessities and the makings of a summer dinner, we stopped off for a panino and a cappuccino at one of Allders' concessions, called 'Munch'. I left the counter with the the sandwiches and coffees in take-away containers after an argument over the non-provision of plates, their stated reason being that, at 5.20, they were closed for eating-in because the business shut at 6. I hardly need add that we won't be re-visiting 'Munch'.

Arrived home grumpy after that, but the evening was cheered by watching the slightly odd film 'A Cock and Bull Story', starring Steve Coogan and Rob Brydon playing two characters called Steve Coogan and Rob Brydon, who are trying to make a film of the 'unfilmable' eighteenth century novel 'The Life and Times of Tristram Shandy, Gentleman'.

We seek him here, we seek him there...

We got home a little while ago from a very pleasant short stay with Kevin and Stephen, in Haslemere. We went there for dinner last night, and very splendid and relaxed it was too, with Stephen's sister Denise, and her husband Peter, there too. Kevin and Stephen cooked some chicken wings for a kind of early finger-lickin' starter, then a wonderfully tender beef stew, with crunchy french beans and minted potatoes, followed by treacle tart. There was a plentiful supply of red wine, too.

Peter's drama group are off to the Minack Theatre in Cornwall soon to reprise their recent production of The Scarlet Pimpernel.

Although Denise and Peter had to go home last night, we stayed over and enjoyed a very welcome cooked breakfast this morning. And we've set a date to have all four of them over for dinner in a few weeks' time.

Unsung heroes

Travelling up the M5 yesterday evening I noticed, as I sometimes do, work taking place on electrical pylons. Looks very complex and very dangerous - wires hanging down apparently haphazzardly, huge contraptions, cradles, pulleys and other bits of equipment hanging from the pylons. It looks like a complete mess but I'm sure it's all a highly organised project. What are these people called? Is it linesmen? One wonders what they do and how they do it.

Listening to xfm.nl. Every time they speak, though, it does sound phlegm-ish.

President Putin has man-breasts, or moobs as I prefer to call them.

Today on wikipedia I have been mostly reading about Champagne (and sabrage*), and bidets.

*Look it up, you lazy so-and-so!

Dirty protest

The untidy protesters in Parliament Square have been evicted, apparently because they are a public health hazard. Yes, they are an eysore. But if you're going to protest against the state, against the government, against a parliament that gives the government its legitimacy, where better to protest? Perhaps, they might say, when Parliament cleans up its act, they will clean up theirs?

Just a scratch

I see NASA, in an official communiqué, are describing the damage to the underside of the space shuttle Endeavour as "a small ding", as if it had had a minor accident backing into the garage.

Endeavour is currently docked to the International Space Station, and some six US and one Canadian astronauts, along with the ISS's two Russian and one American crew, are enlarging the station, and replacing some broken bits. They're performing quite a large number of space walks, apparently, and may have to try to repair the underside of the shuttle.

Perhaps they've got some Isopon P38 on board? That should do it.

Post haste

Our strange, butch, postwoman, or postal delivery officer (or is it post operative - ha! no, that might be presumptive) has just arrived outside, as always in what I assume to be her own car, a large and rather butch Fiat hatchback.

Is she so lazy that she can't walk her round? Is she given special dispensation - not to mention insurance - by Royal Mail to use her own car, rather than a Post Office vehicle?

It's very odd. She parks in a space here, opens the boot, rummages through sacks of mail, and pulls out the post for the block here. Sometimes she leaves the car and wanders out, presumably to deliver to other local addresses.

Then she comes back, inexpertly extracts her car from the car park, with lots of kerb-bumping, and off she goes.