Wednesday, 22 November 2017
Around the village, near The Turrets, there are about twenty dog-walkers, and of course, we meet up at various points, depending on where the various dogs want to go!
JRT tends to go less far these days, as she's getting on a bit, but each walk has to be different, so we meet different owners as well. Banter ranges from a single hearty 'Good Morning', to a prolonged road-side discussion on the failures of the BBC/politicians/KCC etc etc, and we all enjoy the craic!
One good chum has a big dog of indeterminate breeding. His name is Cody, and he was rescued by a charity from war-torn Bulgaria a few years ago. He's a gorgeous boy, we all love him and even JRT scampers around his legs and feet, while Cody just takes not a blind bit of notice. I always stroke his head and he usually lets out a quiet whimper and enjoys the company.
The other day, Cody's dad took him up to see some new houses being built on a large estate, as my chum is thinking of downsizing, and wanted to look around. Cody went into the office with him. After a few enquiries, one of the girls behind the sales desk noticed Cody, and said what a lovely boy he was. My chum told her the story, and another girl in the office piped up, saying that she was from Bulgaria too!
She came over to talk to the dog in his 'native' language, which Cody seemed to acknowledge. They all went their separate ways after that, and returned home.
That evening Cody's mum arrived home from the train down from London. For the first time in many a year, Cody was off his food, and didn't wag his tail or show any recognition of both mum and dad. He stayed in another part of the room, and kept himself to himself all evening, staring into space.
He's back to normal now, perhaps waking up again in a secure home did the trick, but we're all convinced that by hearing the 'native' accent, dear Cody had an awful immediate recall of the dreadful pain and fear he experienced when he and many more dogs were just used as target practice.
Monday, 13 November 2017
Just this evening, we suddenly discovered that we were somewhat lacking in the tincture department, and that a visit to our local Tesco was in order, to make up the deficit.
Now I'm never one to complain as everyone knows, I mean, we even watched three seconds of the BBC 'News' before I threw a bottle at the screen while they spouted their usual leftie bile, but a reduction of levels of tincture is not for the squeamish!
So any'ow, a visit to the fifth aisle was becoming a dead cert, and so it was! Several bottles were gently laid in order in a trolley, and a bank card was checked at least eighteen times before I ventured to the till. Now, at this time of night, there are no girls we recognise at all, they're all at home, but a vague recollection of a pretty cashier resolved me to unload the collection and think of England. Nice lass, firm b...
All was fine, and your friendly Scrobs meandered back to the relatively new car to prepare for the short journey home.
Bugger me, every single light in the car started to blaze away, and I thought that Blackpool had arrived, which is pretty stupid really, but there was so much light everywhere, I needed sunglasses - but they were at home!
And I didn't have a clue how to turn everything off! The interior lights stayed on and shone in my eyes, the dashboard was flashing like every lighthouse in Christendom at the same time, and above all, I had a warning light as well! It was dark, so I couldn't find the manual, which is written in forty-eight languages, and has so many warnings that I'm really scared of it, and after pressing all the switches in a flurry of panic at the traffic lights I realised that I'd left the boot open...
Blimey! What an escapade! I don't really want to go out after dark these days, Mrs Scroblene is just the finest company I could wish for, but even a foray out at such an hour as six-thirty after the clocks change is now somewhat aligned to Scott of the Antarctic meeting David Livingstone in a pub near Droitwich, and discussing the relative merits of tomatoes in aspic...
I'm staying in for the next four months, (except for a boozy 'do' I've been invited to just before Christmas), and that's the way it'll be! (I'm walking this year, last year I went on my electric bike, got my foot caught on the chain in the dark and fell off)!
And they haven't even turned the lights on in Regent Street yet!
Saturday, 4 November 2017
Back in 2012, there was some proposed development put forward to take over Dartford, cover it with concrete and shopping malls. I was working then, and knew the site well, and as a chortle, wanted to bring in a few old chums to make fun of the issues...
So, unashamedly, I'm reproducing the whole post in its entirety, and ask readers the question, 'How many issues mentioned here are relevant today'?
I reckon at least six, and counting Edwina (who doesn't), eight...
Scroblodanus or what...
What should have been a gathering of great celebration, was turned into a major unpleasant incident, so reports Mrs Edwina Baggage, Bicycling Correspondent on The Sodden Prickney Bugle.
With the failure of the local broadcasting company to curb the affections of some of their staff, the recent 'inspiration', of Miss Cynthia Molestrangler was enhanced when at some stage in the evening, Mr Norman Wibble, a Veteran of several world wars, and also the village fete's disastrous production of 'Ben Hur', was asked to put some music on the record player, to create a jubilant atmosphere.
Miss Molestrangler was sitting next to the box of records, and Mr Wibble accidently brushed against her nylon encrusted knee, with the result, that she began shrieking hysterically, and claimed to be a victim of abuse by this rampant lothario!
Of course, Mr Wibble was astounded by this accusement, and became hypothetical, to which Miss Molestrangler advanced her posture to 'Aggressive', thereby thrusting her rather large accoutrements towards the explainant, which tended to excite some of the younger members of the community.
This became untenable to a bachelor such as Mr Wibble, and while Miss Molestrangler was no stranger to various interference in intimate terms with anyone who might wish to avail themselves, it was a serious position in which Mr Wibble became incarcerated.
It appears that Mrs Edwina Baggage, who has long espoused the term 'bicyclism', and which has shady connotations not unconnected with similar versions of compatibility with energetic discussions about Uganda, decided to nail Miss Molestrangler once and for all, and egged Mr Wibble to start a gropefest in (or on), her honour.
Mr Wibble now has to take copious amounts of beta blockers after suffering from the effects of such an occasion, and as Mrs Baggage points out in her column, (she likes that word), there's nothing wrong with espousing 'bicyclism', as long as it only happens in private, and not in places like the Sodden Prickney Village Hall. There was once a case of a record playing gentleman noticing a small piece of purple lace on the fragrant knee of Mrs Baggage, and while she protested that the elastic on her favourite Janet Reger had broken, the matter was not by silenced by the gentleman, (to be named one day by Mrs Baggage when she has little to write about), who exclaimed in a loud whisper 'Charlie's Dead', and received a few clops around his ears for the privilege!
Mr Sagtrouser was unavailable for comment, and Senor O'Blene declined to say anything other than a terse 'Sod off, it wasn't me'.
Meanwhile, the 'Kent Themerama' saga continues to struggle forward, despite opposition from just about everybody.