This winter is going to be competitive.
This winter is going to be competitive.
My son, James, on this Remembrance Sunday morning, finding one of his two Great, Great Grandfathers listed on the local war memorial in Collyhurst, Manchester.
My wife and I were in Specsavers on Friday, tasked with the simple job of picking a pair of glasses each for reading. It’s an age thing.
She handed me a pair of round ones to try on.
Jen: “You look like John Lennon. Or that other one.”
Jen: “Harry Potter. Try these.” She handed me a pair of black rimmed ones. I put them on.
Me: (Singing) “We-a-hell, the little things you say and do . . . ”
Me: ” . . . make me want to be with you-ah-ou . . . ”
Jen: “Do you like them?!”
Me: “Rave on, it’s a crazy feeling and . . . ”
Jen: “Do you like them or not?”
Me: “I know, it’s got me reeling . . . ”
Jen: “Yes or no?”
Me: “No. I told you I didn’t want any strong-rimmed ones. Do you know why I was singing that?”
Jen: “Yes, it’s Chuck Berry,”
Me: “It’s Buddy Holly!”
Jen: “I meant him.” I took them off, she handed me another pair.
Jen: “Try these. They’re green.”
Me: (Without looking at them.) “Put them back.”
Jen: “You’ve not even tried them.”
Me: “I’m not wearing green glasses.”
Jen: “Well what about these?”
Me: “I look like Dame Edna Everage.”
Jen: “You don’t!”
Me: “I don’t want glasses with sparkly bits on them.”
Jen: “They’re not sparkly.”
Me: “They’re like Elton John’s in his Rocket Man days.”
Jen: “Right! I’ll pick mine first then.” She put a pair on.
Jen: “What about these?”
Me. “Let’s see. Nah, I don’t like them.”
Jen: “What do you bleeding know about glasses anyway?!”
Can’t wait until we qualify for dentures.
While a friend of mine was in New York tonight, I was taking my son to his football training.
He might have got the skyscrapers
but we got the sky
Apologies are winging your way if I’ve not replied to your comments or visited your blogs recently. I’ve had a little fly in the ointment, so to speak, which is non-technical jargon for I’ve been having problems with WordPress recently and I haven’t a clue why.
I’m writing this post in the hope that it has now been rectified, and if it hasn’t, well, there’s only me reading this and you guys are none the wiser. Please let me know.
A couple of days ago, at a motorway service station, I was walking down a corridor, flanked the whole way by a glass window, whilst seeking out the Gents. At the end of the corridor a little girl was loudly banging on the glass. “Look, Daddy, pigeons!”
Her father, wearing the forlorn look of one waiting for his wife to come out of the toilet, a look I knew only too well, replied: “They aren’t pigeons, darling, they’re crows.”
As I passed them both I too glanced out at the birds.
Actually, they are not crows, I thought to myself, they are jackdaws.
And, with a certain smugness:
And I should know, being, unknown to you, the anonymous author of the City Jackdaw blog.
I didn’t say this, of course, for who was I to destroy the little child’s fantasy of her all-knowing father.
And besides, at that moment in time, I couldn’t even get City Jackdaw to work.
Travelling down to Lincolnshire to pick up our new puppy, trying to distract two ultra-hyper kids and keep things calm, and then, as we approach a roundabout . . .
Further to my earlier post about our imminent new addition to the family, a Welsh Springer Spaniel named Bryn, we were thrilled to receive this photograph from his breeder, having hired a photographer to capture him and his eight siblings in a great family portrait.
After meeting the challenge of getting all nine pups on the couch at the same time, lined up and facing the same way, (no easy task), they both sat to view the results. The photographs were great, capturing the young dogs in all of their appealing cuteness.
Then one of them counted.
Eight puppies. One had managed to give them the slip, unnoticed. It could have been our Bryn, for the breeder had already given him the nickname Houdini, due to his ability to escape from any man-made restraints. And so they had to go through the difficult process again, which may explain why our dog, on the far left as you look, appears decidedly unimpressed.
If you read my previous post, you’d have learned of the great coincidence, some might say divine intervention, that led to us getting Bryn. Which is quite appropriate as this puppy portrait reminded me of a certain Da Vinci painting.
Last Supper? Im expecting him to eat us out of house and home.