30th November. A Very Merry Cluttermas.

When I came back I first of all banged into the wreath on the porch door and then the glass of the inner door was adorned with stick on snowflakes. It's that festive time of year again, Cluttermas. It didn't take long to decorate the tree this year, Isabelle tells me, since it was pre-decorated from last year and only had to be moved inside from the 30ft container. In fact it was July before it moved out of the lounge room to the container in the first place, so Cluttermas 2005 lasted, by that reckoning, over six months. There were attenuating circumstances involving an intervertebral disc, it has to be admitted; Cluttermas normally only lasts from about November to February. I go to make a cup of tea and the noise of putting the caddy on the shelf sets off the sound activated singing robin (made in china) which is now stationed in the vicinity, presumably for the duration?

29th November. "Are You on Drugs?"

Well I offered a hand to move the piano over the back doorstep, it had arrived in the back of the local builders Transit. I said something about the sound being not bad despite the fact it was a bit out of tune. It was then that 'John the builder' said "Are you on drugs?" which almost didn't register but then I thought what is he on about?

It was only afterwards I realised that J the builder, lacking or unwilling to play within the accepted boundaries of social decorum, was probably only voicing what the majority think but keep to themselves. To be honest I'd practically forgotten that I sound like I'm recovering from a stroke, (which was someone else's interpretation). Personally I think its all down to falling off a bicycle at age 8. Was the builders interpretation based on real life experience or was it just the idea of what 'being on drugs' is like in the public imagination?

28th November. Death of a PC

Isabelle phoned the clinic first thing for a progress report, then relayed the news to me; it was dead, 'nothing recoverable'. A lifeless corpse, still intact, but with all the memories and skills gone forever together with the accounts for the year ending 4th April 2006. 'Did we want to come in and pick up the body or would they dispose of it?' We could take it to the 'recycling', then it'll end up in Nigeria where any financial information can somehow be retrieved by a crime syndicate or anyone else creating a false identity. Would you really want to be me though? I'm not too sure myself?

27th November. Struggling For Consciousness

Tammy Wynette blasts out above the clatter of dishes here at the Motor Grill. In the U.S. the Motor Grill would be, I suppose, a Truck Stop. For some reason Lorries, high chloresterol and country & western seem to hang together on both sides of the Atlantic, is it because C&W is the only musical genre to encompass songs about truck driving? I order "Double egg, chips & beans with bread & butter and a cup of tea", quickly I find that I've over eaten, then before I can stagger outside I have to buy a Mars bar in addition because they don't take debit cards for anything less than a fiver.

As I progress down the A9 I can feel all available oxygen in the blood being diverted away from the brain to digestive duties, so the food at the Motor Grill does pose something of a health risk.

26th November. The Moon and Jimmy Hill.

I veered about a bit on the road trying to get the number on the mobile, I wanted to tell Isabelle that tonight the moon was like one out of a story book, and to take a look outside. The crescent had the familar profile of Jimmy Hill; long chin, nose, mouth, even an eye. I phoned Fergus so as wee Whats-her-name could take a look at the Man in The Moon too. However there was no answer, and really in all fairness they should be telling that child that the moon is a lifeless ball of rock in orbit around the Earth. However without it life on earth would be pretty freaky if there was any life at all. As I understand it, the Earth would be kind of like an overloaded washing machine on the spin cycle. That is, minus the block of concrete bolted inside that smooths out most of the wobble and judder...

25th November. The Vanishing.

Course I know what it's like, being a fully trained Bereavement Counsellor, that's why I was able to give Isabelle the space required for the grieving process. I had to take my tea downstairs as I was in too bouyant a mood and not downcast enough after recent events. A young chicklet has disappeared without trace somewhere in the Bermudan triangle area of the Beech hedge, scene of another mysterious vanishing a while back. An elderly hen had been a bit too casual in its habit of roosting in the top of the hedge.

The death of a younger individual on the threshold of lifes potential is always hard to come to terms with. The lack of a body and an unsolved crime leave questions forever unanswered, this can weigh heavily on the mind of the bereaved. I don't think any of the nine siblings or the Mother have actually noticed though.

24th November. A Third of a Fish Supper.

I'd only had a ham salad roll from that shop recently reopened as 'The EarlyBird' a change from 'Cammys' Bellybusters', (obviously moving more upmarket with the addition of net curtains). So by the time I was on the return journey in the dark and wet, I thought I'd pull over at the Fish & Chip shop, (under new management). Under new management is a euphemism for now offering a chinese menu in addition to the traditional fried fare. This brings the total of Chinese Takeaways in what is basically a provincial backwater to something approaching double figures. I could tell by the extreme weight of the box I was handed that something had gone far wrong in the cooking process...

Chip shops staffed by young girls may be pleasant enough but the results invariably take some beating in terms of cooking oil absorption. More often than not I usually think I'll never stomach another fish supper or in this case only a third of a fish supper.

23rd November. Cumberland Sausage with Chlorine.

I'd picked up two packs of Tescos' Finest, both with yellow labels. I've been eating my way through them the last couple of days. The last of them were a wee bit past the date but these dates are for guidance only? They say don't eat an hour before swimming but there's no variance in that formula to allow for what exactly you've eaten. Well an hour's not nearly enough in the case of the cumberland sausage.

Mr Whatsisname certainly was putting us through our paces, imagine trying to swim front crawl lying sideways one hand outstretched and the other creating a wave of chlorinated pool water directly into your open gullet. Goggles misting over as you alternate between burping up sausage and gulping in Cryptosporidium. The result had me reaching for the Bisodol as soon as I was driving out of the car park, to at least neutralise the sausage, if nothing else.

22nd November. Teaching Chickens.

The Hypothermic Hen is still 'staying over' at night and with the recent wet weather has come to prefer indoors to outdoors during daylight hours too. There is really only one drawback with this arrangement and this centres on the learning abilities of birds in general. Although by poultry standards 'Hettie' has a remarkably high IQ, all the resident cats here are intellectual giants in comparison. To be able to grasp the concept of a litter tray takes even the averagely developing Hominid a couple of years to come to terms with. What chance is there of training up a chicken? Even an egghead like Harold the budgie (now sadly deceased) who might have been on the threshold of mimicry would never have 'understood', just merely repeated parrot fashion.

Rebuking the Hen for its inability to handle a concept as abstract as pooing in one place would be like belting a Dyslexic pupil for putting his letter y the wrong way round and we've all moved on a long way since those days.

21st November. Everyday Electronics Revisited.

The PC was on the blink, well it kept cutting out when I was halfway through doing peoples invoices, causing a deal of frustration. A small squirt of WD 40 into the end of the power supply lead did little to improve matters and shortly after, all vital signs had flatlined. I started pulling the various leads out of the back, "You'll need to make a note of those" chimed Isabelle. I carted the grey box downstairs to the kitchen table and set about it with a phillips screwdriver.

Another grey box within the grey box said power supply on it so I removed that with its entrails attached and took the electric soldering iron to it. Having isolated the problem to complicated things I know nothing about, it was simply a matter of ordering a replacement small grey box from e-bay. That's the beauty of the PC format-cheap easily fitted spare parts.

When I came home tonight I said "Is there any post for me?"
"No but there's a parcel outside". This was the new small grey box. It looked the same but had a few more wires than the original, still the wires had the same sort of colours. It all plugged in easily enough, so I was ready to get down to the overdue quotations. I switched on, the drawer you put CDs in opened ominously and the screen didn't get beyond that first bit with all that guff about megatrends. Now what?

This is just like those projects that never worked out of Everyday Electronics circa 1973. I can't very well chuck the thing under the bench this time, we'll starve within a fortnight.

20th November. Another Enid.

I don't think I've actually met an Enid before, only as the author of approximately 800 childrens books. A name slightly dated today, perhaps like the attitudes in 'The Famous Five' but not quite as passe as say, Dick and Fanny.

Anyway they said there was no progression for a child fed exclusively on a diet of Enid Blyton. That young mind could be trapped for life on a veritable hamster wheel of Noddy and Big Ears. I remember pleading with the Old Man when he came in from work to buy me a copy of 'Shadow The Sheepdog' because the one from the library was due back. Somehow that particular volume had been accorded the status of a holy book. Which only goes to show how susceptible the nascent intellect can be.

19th November. Cold Chicken.

Awoke this Sunday to a medical emergency. Hettie the Intelligent Hen seemed to be suffering from hypothermia, so I suggested that the chicken could be placed in the oven with the door open to restore its circulation, Isabelle readily assented and soon had the bird installed in the Esse cooker. I made some comment about long slow cooking, but Isabelle was in medical emergency mode. An out of hours call to the vet revealed that Hettie most likely had a chill, the treatment comme d'habitude was a dose of the universal antibiotic (see previous).

The next time I went in the kitchen the hen had been repositioned in front of the grill and was receiving the benefit of a more radiant heat. The Universal antbiotic from the vet had a more or less miraculous effect and Hettie was able to continue on in the Daihatsu out to Crieff. She seemed un-phased by the movement of the windscreen wipers and showed a keen interest in the passing scenery as any intelligent creature would.

18th November. 007 Risk Averse

Rendez-voused with Stuart at 'The Foundry'. I had a pint of Guinness which I was to regret later. About halfway through the film I thought I'll just hang on now, it's too much hassle to go out to the toilets, besides something else is bound to happen soon? . That is something else after the opening chase we've all come to expect. This free running scene represented part of the continuing update of the Bond genre.

However Bond and MI6 studiously avoided any contact with characters that could be mistaken for being Arabic. Bond also stayed well clear of any of the worlds hot spots, sub-saharan Africa being a safer bet. There was one chap who unwittingly became a suicide bomber but that wasn't his intention, although to be fair he did press a button and blow himself up. Overall there just wasn't enough explosions for my money, of any description. Bond is supposed to be more real as a character but ends up on another planet as far as present day international terrorism goes.

17th November. Pigeon Round-Up

Isabelle informed me that I had drawn the short straw with regard to pigeon duty tonight. The round up takes place after any flying day as the pair like to roost in the hen house. However the coming daylight would leave them vulnerable to predation by the likes of Tigger or Jiminy. Night vision of the pigeon is mildly more limited than a Human but their capture still provides a degree of challenge, I find.

I drag myself from Alien 3 to face the onerous task (not that I was really watching it). I find myself staring up with a torch at a mixture of various sizes of hens bottoms. 'Whistle' the smaller pigeon, sitting above the door, coos with an annoyed tone but is trapped first time with a tea towel over the head and returned safely. 'Donnie' the larger and more wily senses the impending capture, orange eyes glinting at the far wall on top of an old wardrobe. The torch is balanced on top of a bag of open cement which is balanced on top of a non-working clothes dryer (another task that's waiting). Too much light and the game will go on for long enough, patience will be lost; too little and although he can't see me, I can't see him either.

The pigeon shifts position, I miss, he's flapping about and thinking about taking off but then thinks better of it due to the lighting levels. I've half grabbed him now, one wing is out and flapping, I knock the torch over, the bulb goes out. I slide about on layers of chicken poo stumbling into the clothes dryer before making it to the outside. Donnie is not happy and makes a strenuous effort with the one free wing to resist being put back in his own house. There! Godammit! Game Over!

16th November. Belief/Doubt...Whatever.

I was absent from this armchair for two hours to undergo another round of Thursday night swim club (£1.00). Frequency of going to the leisure pool has increased to three times a week, (as if there weren't more important things to do). Mr Whatsisname the trainer has promised me that three sessions a week for two months should result in the ability to swim 1.5 km and not be the last. Tonight though he was bandying around a figure of four months.

On other nights, members of the public adopt a far more relaxed attitude to lane swimming compared with the punishing regime imposed by Mr Whatsisname on the club members. Wednesdays, for instance, sees the same three middle-aged men spending most of the time taking up the shallow end of lane one discussing things like interest rates for deposit accounts at the Alliance & Leicester, before putting in a few more leisurely lengths. They are never going to manage 1.5km in a river. Unlike me, I tell myself. According to some schools of Psychological thought whether or not one believes what one tells oneself doesn't actually matter... I tell myself.

15th November. Drilling Through to Next Door.

You've got to be very careful when drilling through a kitchen wall that's only one brick thick when there's a flat on the other side containing a middle-aged woman.
Can you imagine the abuse? I had no desire to witness such a reaction first hand, but at the same time the plastic rawlplugs needed a sufficient depth of hole. Unfortunately half the wall thickness had already been lost to the cooker outlet box. The delicate procedure was not unlike trepanning through a patients skull, the surgeon must keep a careful watch on the colour of the brick dust coming out of the hole. As soon as the bit breaks through to the grey matter of the plaster on the other side he must pull up short before there is irreparable damage with a strong possiblity of some kind of fit or seizure.

14th November. IKEA!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

By about 3pm I've worked myself up to the point of cursing the worlds richest man or 4th richest man depending on what you consider a controlling interest in your own company. That's because the centre panel of the wardrobe is in upside down and with all those 47, or whatever, panel pins nailed in the back of it, well it's there for good. Yes old Ingvar Kamprad backed a loser when he gave money to the Swedish Nazi party but then he came good with the flatpack furniture thing (net worth $28 Billion.)

There must be people scratching their heads and muttering expletives in every native tongue of Europe not to mention the Far-East. So if Hitler had triumphed in Europe the only possible difference is the cursing of IK this afternoon might have been in German instead of English.

13th November. Slime Fish.

"Do you want to grab a fish?" asked Isabelle whilst I was busy on my appointed task of de-sliming the aquarium filter. These two monsters of the deep are now nine years old and started off as fairground-sized goldfish. Originally there were three others, these have succumbed to various diseases, some probably stress related. The end game of which usually left the poor creature spending its last days swimming upside down.

The fish don't complain much but it's not everyone that can spend almost a decade with the same limited outlook. After de-sliming, the pair are definitely happier about having the view of the bedroom restored. In the morning when the alarm goes off, if I open one eye, there will be a fish in the corner of the tank mouthing stones and waiting for Goldfish food.

Tonight was pretty much a slime-fest, as the job had been put off and put off. I mean, if you were going to wait till you actually felt like a bit of slime removal work, the water would end up like Knorr Country Chicken and Leek.

12th November. Aspelund World.

An excellent time for once again assembling IKEA furniture now the weather's begining to turn disagreeable. The afternoon began cold with a certain moodiness but Isabelle took two Ibuprofens for her headache so we didn't, in the end, have any argument about curtain rail fitments. The bed ends had been propped against the bedroom wall so long that they were now slightly convex, but nonetheless I soon warmed to the task of following the Ikean hieroglyphs.

How long will it be before the local populace is turfing IKEA bedroom furniture into the skips at the 'recycling' centre with the same gay abandon currently reserved for pine furniture of the 80's? In any case we'll be able to watch and say "Oh look there goes a complete Aspelund and a Hensvik."

11th November.'Puffson' Blows a Gasket.

'Puffson' the masturbating chicken appears to have suffered some kind of stroke. At least that was the conclusion of the vet this morning - another morning wasted, not to mention the consulting fee.

The treatment consisted of the universal antibiotic shot which, from past experience, seems to cover everything from a Gerbil to a Labrador; there was also a very general steroid based anti-inflammatory. It's a wonder that such a dim-witted bird could actually have a big enough brain to get a clot in at all. Still, having been squeezed into a cat box during the hours of darkness the creature seemed happy enough on the trip into town. However Puffson's gait had possibly suffered from being rather cramped in the said cat box, and following a short hobble round the consulting room the prognosis was 'not good'.

This physical deterioration has not gone unoticed by 'Mr Evil II', and on returning to the community 'Puffson' was subject to the laws of the playground just like any kid with a caliper or such like. Continuing and increased frustration is the most likely outcome of this debilitating health problem as it has done nothing to increase his chances with the ladies.

10th November. O.C.D. / C.C.A.

Contracted by a Mr R. to redo someone elses work. In other words sort out someone elses mistakes. (Yawn). The R's are a little bit OCD.* non stop hoovering on Mrs Rs' day off and a special request ftom Mr R. This involved dressing up with those elasticated blue bags on your boots following every re-entry into the living room "we only discovered how easily the floor is scratched after it was fitted" admitted Mr R. and by way of explanation volunteered "She does her f***ing nut!".

Tucking into my peanut butter sandwiches I noticed firewood stacked outside consisting of tell-tale green CCA treated fence posts (Copper, Chrome & Arsenic). The main health hazard from this is from burning it. If I mentioned anything it would only be cause for more worry, I thought,... Wait a minute though, aren't my hands black with condensed combustion products including vapourised heavy metals? Oh no!.. but I can use a Tesco carrier bag as a glove to hold my sliced bread, so long as no one sees me.

* Obsessive Compulsive Disorder.

9th November. The Dead Hand of Bureaucracy.

I'd not long left the ground on the 'cherry picker' this morning when a Green Meanie (parking attendant) appeared around the corner and started harrassing Mr B. who was trapped defenceless at ground level. Apparently the machine was about to be issued with two parking penalties, not only that I'd have to move the Daihatsu and the trailer off the pavement as this was a severe transgression. When the Meanie had wandered off, Mr B. telephoned me, as I was now out of earshot, to relay the news that we were in 'deep shit' with the council. The machine required a permit based on a full risk assessment and traffic management analysis. I had been ordered to stop work immediately until the paperwork was in order.

It was on another sickeningly wobbly descent that the battery which powered the hydraulics decided to go flat. Yesterday I remembered discussing whether the auxiliary diesel engine relied on this same battery to start itself? It didn't make any sense, so we happily concluded it must have a separate battery otherwise you'd just end up stuck in the air. Stuck in the air was exactly right, the starter for the diesel engine was dependent on the very same battery. It just made a few growling noises, and there was little sign of any starting. I then spent a few anxious minutes waiting for the battery to recover a bit for one last try. Luckily on this occasion the thing roared to life, thus avoiding any embarrassed calls to Martin Plant Hire.

Mr B. disappeared to the council offices and eventually came back clutching the requisite permit. This together with my operators course certificate issued yesterday by the man from Martin Plant Hire meant that we were now 'fully legal', as Mr B. put it. Perhaps this was just as well; now that the morning had been wasted, the proceedings were bedevilled by lunchtime pupils from the local school ducking by on the pavement so far below.

8th November. Pure Fear.

Today was to provide perfect conditions for examining the nature of pure fear.

The man from Martin Plant Hire arrived first thing with the 'Cherry Picker' (mobile access platform), then immediately had to go away again. The machine was completely inadequate for the job as far as a height requirement of about 60 feet was concerned. Half-an-hour later another machine arrived. The man from Martin Plant gave me a briefing on the controls as we went up in the air, but only to the extent that his own personal comfort zone allowed, this was still well within mine, "Ha, I can see my house from here!" he quipped, nervously. The chimney stack only seemed marginally closer from this vantage point...

Once alone with the contraption I found that Pure Fear began at about the level of the 2nd storey, I kept the control lever up as the platform wobbled its way further from the ground. Looking down, the trailer unit with its hydraulic supports jutting into the morning traffic in Rose Terrace, looked about the size of a 50 pence piece. Mr B, down in the street, was now out of earshot and only contactable by mobile phone. This wasn't like abseiling or parachuting with one simple surrender and no further say in the matter. Fear increased in direct proportion to the height from the ground as did the sickening wobble caused by the play in the various moving parts. I could maintain complete control over the height but not my heart rate. This resulted in an interesting battle between rational thoughts and irrational ones.

"We've never had one topple over" had been the last words of the man from Martin Plant.

7th November. Extreme Right.

Mr B. hadn't actually noticed the discrepancy which came to light whilst being frisked before a recent flight departure. The airport secutity man was moved to pass comment whilst checking the lower half of Mr B's body. "Do you know your right leg is much wider than your left, sir?" "No" replied Mr B "No I didn't, actually."

This increase of right leg musculature is a long term result of not being much good at kicking a football with his left leg in earlier life. Similarly Mr B's passion for squash has ended up with the right forearm massively developed compared with the left and this has exacerbated the entire right handedness. A continuing imbalance hasn't been the best thing for back pain though and a physiiotherapist recommended some sort of activity with an equal use of both sides.

Mr B went out and bought a kayak. The initial paddling trials on Loch Alsh found Mr B's efforts to go straight ahead more or less describing a circle.

6th November. Fantasy Exercise.

This morning there was rather a strange smell like the drains when I arrived at the G.D.s', both indoors and outdoors. Not exactly a stench, but not evocative of health and vitality either. I didn't feel it was really my place to raise the subject. Mr G.D. slept on through the odour and likewise the tennis on Sky Sports.

When I arrived home Isabelle was clutching the laptop and lying prone on the sofa bed, having folded it back into a sofa. Notification by e-mail had arrived confirming that her mother (60) had reached the roof of Africa yesterday (5895metres).

I finished the day half watching some fly-on-the-wall thing about fat people trying to walk from one end of the country to the other.

5th November. High (Calorie) Tea.

Clocked in at the local restaurant for the peculiarly Scottish phenomenon known as 'High Tea'. This traditional fare seems to be unique to Sundays. The event kicks off around 4pm, contestants are advised to bring an empty stomach. The first appearance on the table is about a gallon of tea, for everything else that follows to swim around in. Next up a rack of toast with jam like you're about to breakfast. Then the dinner arrives, usually good old-fashioned standards, I opted for close-to-extinction breaded haddock, 'Mrs Junior to be' had Growth hormone chicken curry with GM rice, Isabelle and Junior had steak and mushrooms with Creutzfeldt-Jakob fears and everyone must have chips. Then the tiered cake stand arrives with the ubiquitous selection of high calorie delicacies for the sweet tooth. These are all part of the set price, but what kind of constitution can stomach a fruit scone then maybe a meringue after a chicken curry?

4th November. Gar's Generous Big Bang.

In the end Fergus's dad was rescheduled for the Tour of Ostentation later in the week. That meant there was only four of us plus Pete the nominated driver that made the journey to the invite-only firework fest with free burger van and bar. The bonfire was a splendid affair of straw bails, old tyres,10 gallons of diesel and a mountain of pallets. Then John the ex-fireman and Ross, replete in fireproof suits, just ran around setting light to as many fireworks as possible in the shortest time. These had been lined up previous to the event. The effect of the 'display' was, I imagine, a bit like what would happen if a spark had jumped into a £3000 selection box. We all stood watching money burn at the rate of £400-a-minute.

3rd November. Review of the film Borat...Not!

Life goes on. During the afternoon Mr G.D. slumbered through the snooker on Sky Sports, which made a change from the cricket of the previous two days. It's a shame that this is all that happens when there's so little time left.

Tonight there was no fight at the cinema between young people similarly wasting their lives, which also represented a departure from any set pattern for fridays. This weekend we have visitors; 'Junior' and 'Mrs Junior to be', squashed into the back of the Daihatsu on top of various power tools "My leg has gone dead" (moan).

It's the first visit for exactly a year, it could be a mutual love of explosion? The main reason being the prospect of 'Gar's several thousand £'s of fireworks going off tomorrow night with a bang. Of course Father and son have a lot more in common; an over riding sense of futility, preoccupation with the shortness of life, that sort of thing. At this precise time, like two orbiting planets our transits cross at a unique point where I am exactly twice his age. I said, "I don't feel like you've already lived half my life. it doesn't seem that long since you came out in the labour suite."

2nd November. Swim Club.

The first rule of Swim Club is, you do not talk about Swim Club...?

I wondered if I'd be the worst because some of the older men and women weren't exactly streamlined, although certainly buoyant. Once in the water, I was confirmed as the most inefficient swimmer, even though I was already relegated to the lane for the most in need of coaching. The training programme consisted of alternately gulping air or water and getting progressively more knackered as the hour went on; I was given special dispensation to rest up from the full quota of lengths.

Kicking legs only, stretched out with a float held in front, I found that the other end of the pool didn't seem to be getting any closer. I'm tempted to say "this is hopeless", but then it would certainly never get any better. Seems like I have to learn to "feel the water moving past me" amongst other things, more than enough to occupy the mind in between fighting for breath. I leave the inappropriately named "Leisure Pool" at 10.30pm. feeling like I may not wake up tomorrow.

1st November. Maturity Plus.

Mr G.D. sat slumbering in front of the cricket on Sky Sports, next to the motorised wheelchair and surrounded by various medications. This was a remarkable feat considering I was bashing away with a hammer and bolster not six feet from his ear drums. Admittedly his hearing is a little impaired, as is mine, but I have the benefit of ear defenders.

Mrs G.D. is out visiting, an afternoons light relief from the duty of caring for an older husband. Marrying a younger woman possibly keeps a man younger but there comes a time, it's inevitable, when things take a... downturn. Quite a recent state of affairs judging by the numbers of retrievers and gun dogs all desperate for exercise and the plethora of fly fishing rods and waders.

The downstairs toilet interior charts past visits to both the Arctic and Antarctic, the Polar Bear and the Adelie Penguin; ironic now that the desired effect of fitting this multi-fuel stove is to more or less create a permanent equatorial heat.