22nd March. 2008 Edinburgh University Sprint Triathlon.

Isabelle doesn't care much for swimming, cycling or running, so combining all three into one sport and then making it a race appeals about as much as saturday shopping for parfumeries does to me

However she was anxious to accompany me and lend support, even at such an early hour, to todays event.

I dropped her off somewhere at the bottom of Leith Walk so she could make her way by bus to spend all morning in Jenner's followed by a two course lunch at Harvey Nichol's.

An amazing display of endurance..

21st March. How Young People Celebrate Easter.

There I was proceeding west along Glenearn Rd when I saw a couple of young men in baseball caps loitering in the dark by the swings..

Mmmm... perhaps loitering with intent I thought.

At that precise moment the passenger side window received a direct hit from some missile or other with a resounding crack.

On arrival at the Leisure Pool car park an inspection revealed a plastering of albumen, shell and yolk.

19th March. Steaming.

I kept wondering what the noise coming from the kitchen was.

Something like a pressure cooker permanently blowing it's valve, then a short period of silence then Whoooshh! off again.

Maybe Mrs Y. was trying to make marmalade or boil lentils but the valve was jammed up resulting in the geyser-like escape of steam.

Well I kept going in and out, in my slippers or just socks I might add, because the Y's have a bit thing about dust etc...

Beige carpeting of course upstairs and cream coloured floor tiles downstairs connecting by a beech staircase which was sort of beige as well.

In fact if it isn't beige it's either glass or stainless steel.

Anyway I'm descending the stairs again when suddenly the source of the escaping steam was revealed.

I meet Mrs Y. on her hands and knees with a steam cleaner running over each individual line of grout between the floor tiles.

I can see that grout's going to be a real headache showing the dirt, almost as much as the beige carpet.

18th March. Chimney Deja-Vu.

"We're looking at fitting a multifuel stove in this room" says the blonde haired woman that looks like she's reached that age when women start ironing their hair, "Something about 8 watts".

Yeah well 8 watts? you'd be as well putting an energy efficient bulb in the fireplace and huddling around that.

"You were recommended to us by our friends in Bellwood Park"

"Errr... is that the woman that teaches baby massage?"

"No... but she lives next door and recommended you to our friends"

"Oh right"

"I get the feeling I've already been in this house before and done something to a chimney, do you mind if I have a look round?"

The kitchen is an expanse of marble tiles and looks like every other new kitchen.

"I'm not sure, the kitchen was all completely retro 1950's even the fridge was authentic."

"Yes! That's right! it was like that when we moved in, of course we've had it all completely redone.

It's a classic case of one woman's idea of what looks good being completely destroyed to make way for another woman's idea of what looks good.

It's all comng back now, I'd been recommended to the previous woman by yet another woman from the street below.

And the greatest irony of it all is: I'd be quoting the current woman to pull apart the fireplace and fit a liner in the exact same chimney that the previous woman had paid me to fix.

17th March. They Must Be Having An Affair.

Running along in the moonlight, barefoot of course, there is a car up ahead which appears to be stopped in the road.

Rather sinisterly the lights go off then come on again then go off again, I decide to wait at the edge of the wood but the car engine doesn't start.

For some reason, maybe somethng about running silently up to a parked car in the dark on a narrow road, I decide to detour through the wood for added sole conditioning to pass it on the way back.

Approaching where the car had been, from the other direction, it was still there, I could make out it's shape in the dark, suddenly the sidelights come on, obviously some activity disturbed.

The sidelights betrayed something of the make and model of car perhaps a ten year old Rover definitely not a sporty hatchback.

A middle-aged or even retired persons vehicle, music is coming from inside, could be James Last certainly not Hard House...

My pace increases at the horror of being accused of middle-aged Dogging.

16th March. Three Men In a Kitchen.

There comes a time in a man's life when a need for an occupational change seems to be overriding.

"Young" Alistair seemed to be proposing some sort of excursion on the lines of the famed 'Three Men In A Boat' over a cup of tea with another middle-aged visitor.

The emphasis seemed to be on a blowke-ish few days, probably a recipe for a drowning.

My feeling is that these events are mere diversions from the real meat of life - meaningful work.

In that regard we could all just swap jobs although the Teaching Profession could be the short straw in this game.

"How is the teaching profession these days?" I asked this afternoon's visitor.

"A bag of shite."

11th March. Heavy Metal Mouth.

I took a drink of water from the cold tap at the former tearoom.

Obviously not mains water here out in the wilds surrounded by what might be a landscape considered picturesque in July or August but just endless moorland today.

There was the unmistakeable tang of metal in that water.

No wonder the tea tastes kind of weird, no wonder the tearoom closed down?

Now it could be rusty cast iron but the water looks clear enough, in that case, by the time it reaches the kitchen it's probably been running through half a mile of lead pipe.

Have you ever tried chewing lead?

Apart from the toxicity it tastes revolting in a metallic way just like this water.

Scottish Blend specially selected to disguise the taste of lead/ dead ewes in a private water supply.

10th March. Ironman

New light on the perplexing problem of how a human being can complete something like an Ironman.

According to some winning authority on the Net it's all about heart rate monitors, briefly one subtracts one's age from 180 and this gives an upper limit to exercise.

I set off at a reasonable pace and glance at the monitor - 215, Jeezo!

According to the winning authority the problem is having the patience to run slowly enough to condition the heart.

However I've found that this can be easily achieved by meandering bare feet across a ploughed field.

9th March. The Scottish Handbag Show.

It's all about the 'look' for Isabelle.

Motorcycles are basically like handbags with wheels from a woman's viewpoint.

The Motorcycle Show gives men the chance to view the latest fashion trends for this year and the price tags.

Orange (KTM), Green (Kawasaki), etc

"I think I look best on the Speed Triple" says Isabelle sitting astride the latest black streetfighter.

"So I twist this towards me and it goes faster" she says grabbing a handful of throttle..

"Sort of" I reply, imagining the results if it was actually in first gear with the engine running...

5th March. Pigeon Epoxy.

One of those disabled pigeons has what looked like a ball exactly the size and colour of a walnut encasing one foot.

This had the affect of rendering its gait even more gammie than before. However one of the endearing traits of birds is that their habit is to just 'get on with it', when do you ever see a depressed Sparrow or a Blue Tit that thinks it's got a peanut allergy?

Anyway closer inspection revealed that the 'walnut' was composed entirely of pigeon effluvia but in a solid rather than liquid state.

Cracking the 'walnut' proved impossible and the material is also remarkably resistant to soaking in water.

The pigeon seems to share with the chicken the ability to produce an organic substance with all the properties of Araldite Rapid.

4th March. Scary Old Bitch In A Perthshire Kitchen.

You always wonder when you're making a cup of tea with your back to a snarling dog in a strange kitchen if it can smell the fear.

"A,A,A! Calm Down, Calm Down!"

Silence for about ten seconds.

"A,A!"

Jeez how much longer is it going to take this kettle to boil?

I'm begining to smell the fear myself.

1st March. Bollocks.

Received notice from HM Revenue & Customs that unless I pay £2599 by the tenth of this month I will be shot.

Also any assets not inside the house, ie in a garage will be siezed, well they'd be welcome to the Daihatsu, recently synchromesh seems to have gone on second.

As a Citizen we're all meant to be paying for our share of Northern Rock and bringing democracy to the Taliban.

They should just let Tesco run the country, cause it does anyway, whole swathes of mouse clickers could be dispatched, cut out the dead wood, buy one get one free, streamline the whole process with one-click ordering

It's all like a Superstore that still has a half day wednesday.

29th February. Eight Years To Go...errrr maybe not.

Sixteen years ago, 29:2:92 I had this lead box time capsule amazing idea. NOT TO BE OPENED BEFORE 2016

A snapshot of life at that moment, everyone was invited to speak to a video camera privately addressing their presentday-selves to their future-selves.

Those that couldn't be there in person had to make do with a recorded phone conversation, then the box was soldered up and buried.

At the time there were a few bets on who would be the first 'to go' and poignantly enough some already have.

Unexpectedly hardly anyone now would give the time of day to the other people involved.

This same disassociation may also apply to any video evidence of ones former-self.

28th February. One Year On.

Around about now K. and Brother-in-Law Ayk have produced another generation.

And to think this time last year Isabelle's dad took us all to that Hotel Massage cum whore house place in Trang Bang, possibly some sort of Integrity Testing, I don't know, and then we sat and watched a Govt film about edible pond weed whilst sipping Tiger Beers.

It all seems such a short time ago and in that short time you can make another person?

I'll have to quote Isabelle's dad on that - "IN-CREDIBLE!"

27th February. "Look - No Hands!"

"You won't like this." I said climbing out of the velux window and up the 60 degree roof with various custom made ladders.

"You're a braver man than me, trusting your life to some old bits of wood." said Mr F. presently recovering from a climbing accident.

And there's the rub - all the best rope, harnesses, bullet proof belays etc but you've still got to trust something, in Mr F's case, the belayer.

Rope can just as easily slip too quickly through someone elses hands as a short bit of ladder come adrift, when balanced on the ridge of a slate roof.

To be fair 'Chez F' isn't exactly a bungalow, it took eleven metres of liner to reach the fire place and that was on the upper floor.

An error could have resulted in more than just a sore heel.

26th February. The Wafarin Story.

"Never been ill in me life" recounts the ex-Royal Navy boxer "but if I hadn't had that pneumonia they'd never have found out I had lung cancer."

"I didn't think smoking a pipe was that bad for you."

"I said I don't want any treatment, just keep me comfortable but they said a fit bloke like you you've got a good chance of recovery, so I said oh ok."

"The other blokes on the ward they really did look ill, I used to say I'm just here delivering flowers, I was the only one there that didn't die."

"Course I had to stop smoking then, it was the least I could do with them investing all that time and money in me."

"The one lung that's left it's twice the size that it usd to be, I could do anything but they did say that it can put a strain on your heart over the years."

"I was actually asleep when I had the first heart attack, it wasn't like I was overdoing it or anything then I had another two when I got to hospital, that's why they put me on this Warfarin.

"I caught me arm on the edge of the loft ladder, bled like a pig on account of the blood being so thin and I never seem to be able to get warm."

23rd February. Random Restaurants Ltd.

"What did you order sir?" said the smallish Bangla Deshi man balancing various dishes.

"Number thirty-two."

"Mine's twenty-two." echoes Charlie.

"Yes but WHAT was your order sir?"

Why bother to get out your glasses and struggle with the dim lighting?

You see, my choices were limited to one, seventeen or thirty-two - applying the criteria of former addresses with numbers.

Number one would have been some kind of starter which left one of two surprises.

They should just keep the numbers and do away with everything else on the menu.

It's the new craze that's sweeping Britain!

Yes, It's Eating By Numbers!

22nd February. System Of Appeasement.

A shadow passed across Mrs F's face when I mentioned that I wouldn't be back till tuesday, thus the living room of the former manse would have to be left in disarray.

"I have to placate a retired couple", I explain, "He's on Warfarin following a stroke so his blood's like water and he can't get warm, his wife keeps going on about when am I going to fit their stove?"

Tomorrow I have to appease the German woman with the ever lengthening list of faults she is experiencing as a tenant.

Behind these three a whole regiment of women stand clutching quotations and waiting at windows, tut, tutting, whilst peering at calandars for february.

21st February. Andrew Lloyd Weber On my Mind.

It's a shame I'll probably die a lingering death from lung disease all for the sake of spending twelve quid on a new mask from Wickes, instead of 'making do' with the old one.

That's because it certainly works a lot better than previous masks, no black nose pickings at all, even after a days Kango-ing in amongst a Crieff fireplace.

However, felt a bit overwhelmed this morning by cash flow and the seemingly endless endlessness of chimneys.

It struck me that mid-life is a bit like the interval during a performance of say an Andrew Lloyd Weber musical when you go out to collect your pre-paid drinks. Then the bell signifying the start of the second half goes and you say - "I don't think it's going to get any better, do you? What do you think, shall we just go home?"

Then just to emphasise that things could be worse, the back door of the van swung out on a corner getting wedged against the trailer further reducing its chances of ever staying shut.

This caused me to swear at the Inveralmond Industrial Estate.

19th February. My Whole Body Must Be Toxic.

They haven't found a cure for the common cold obviously because if there was I'd be a ready customer.

In fact I've been reviewing the whole respiratory system in general - long term inhalation of combustion products, soot, dust of all kinds including silicon carbide, fibreglass particles, cement, lime, and then the odd bit of asbestos just as a treat.

I made a point of going into Wickes and splashing out on a new mask which claims to deal with most bad things, ready for tomorrows onslaught.

You really can't justify economising with lungs.

I gave J. a ticking off for burning treated fence posts and creosoted railway sleepers in the living room stove.

"Due think the ash is dangerous?"

"Well really you should be wearing a cartridge type face mask at all times whilst watching the telly. Probably a combination of AB and P2 that will do organic vapours as well as toxic particles."

17th February. Get Some Bedrest...Errr...

Finally, after Isabelle coughing in my face for three weeks, I managed to provide rooming house for whatever virus was on the lookout for a new address.

This was perfect timing for the so-called "Wee Triathlon". After the first two of the required sixteen lengths of the Lochaber Leisure Pool suddenly nausea set in, considerably slowing the respectable pace to something less than that.

The mountain bike section was simply disrespectful, as the breathing rate had to be tempered below the threshold of sick.

The running wasn't too bad although I stopped short of going barefoot, still I even passed a few people.

It's been proved conclusively again that if you feel a bit ill, Triathlons especially in February don't make you feel much better.

15th February. "Terror Has An Address."

Dropped in at Gestapo headquarters this morning although the whole place has been quietly bulldozed at some point.

Now no one's quite sure what to do with it.

Surprisingly the Reich Aviation Ministry just across the way looks brand new.

We sit in a cafe just down the road which by the style and age of the ceiling must have survived the best efforts of Bomber Command.

Isabelle orders an apple strudel.

"I bet Old Goering used to come in here for cream cakes" I remark "In fact he probably sat in this seat."

14th February. Blind Date/Mystery Meat.

We are led by our waiter who is either partially sighted or not sighted at all, to be seated in total darkness and we're talking like a coal mine here.

Matt Damon gave a glowing testimonial to the Unsicht Bar experience but then we could be sitting at the next table to Madonna and you'd never know, maybe the darkness is the main attraction for Hollywood types?

"There is your beer sir in front to the right."

There is the sound of chatting and background music and occasionally people barging into things.

Of course this is "Valentins tag", in theory you could take all your clothes off, do anything you like, sort of thing because no one else can see you.

"You can certainly eat with your mouth open" I say to Isabelle with a mouthful of salad which I seem to have got hold of all at once.

We have opted for the "Surprise menu". There was some debate as to what the worst surprise could be? Maybe live octopus or even just spaghetti bolognese.

I'm convinced that my entree consists of a plate of pickled onions with lettuce, "If I get another pickled onion I'll go mad" I say chasing what's left around the plate

The main dish could be pork or beef according to Isabelle who also claimed hers "Smells of piss" which I thought was going a bit far and I'm sure it's chicken.

I think the dessert was a tinned pear in chocolate sauce with maybe a bit of squirty cream.

"The whole meal's probably only cost £2.50 to make..."

"And then they charge you a fortune and you never even know what you ate...Brilliant!" I echo.

"They certainly save on electricity and never need to redecorate, we could be sitting in a lock-up garage."

Once led back out from pitch-black to dimly-lit we are able to view the actual menu...

"Seasonal greens with marinated goose with a mango and apricot dressing?"

"Never!"

"Potato & bacon gnocchis, soy-coconut goose with marinated red cabbage"

followed by some exotic dessert.

No mention of pickled onions at all.

"If I'd known I was eating goose I would have really savoured it" said Isabelle.

13th February. Berlin Departement Store.

"Stay close with me you look like a homeless person." advises Isabelle as we drift amongst aisles of parfumerie and cosmetics under the suspicious eye of a security guard.

Isabelle was appalled to find that my clothing for this trip consisted only of what I was standing up in.

Apparently a lack of colour coordination is indicative of a limited vocabulary when it comes to the language of clothes typical of the average down and out.

12th February. Kafka-esque

"Berlin is an extremely safe city."

The last time I went to Berlin I was detained by the Stasi in a room with a typewriter and a desk for about half an hour on suspicion of something.

Possibly being in posession of a Tesco carrier bag.

11th February. National Standards.

I revisit the German tenant complete with a brand new dehumidifier.

She is waiting for me with a whole litany of faults, each requiring investigation.

One complaint is that the hot water smells funny.

She turns on the hot tap and cupping the water in both hands sniffs it.

Intrigued I follow the same procedure.

"I can't smell anything" I say.

"Maybe it's not hot enough but it smells really foul!"

Obviously the new tenant wants everything to be correct. This fastidiousness could be a national trait.

The previous occupants - Greek, never saw any cause for complaint.

10th February. Aunt.

Isabelle is on the threshold of becoming an aunt.

There's a funny thing ...of becoming an ant.

It's only by context built on life experience to date that we choose the former outcome.

But then we could be speaking metaphorically - a faceless worker in a large organisation.

That possibility still seems more remote than Isabelle's metamorphosis into an insect.

9th February. Mould Behind the Hall Mirror.

"And zer's a mushroom in ze bathroom." said the German woman.

No bloody wonder with this level of humidity I thought.

"I'm keeping ze doors closed to keep ze room warm for ze baby" she motions to a child in a chair at ground level.

"It's condensation" I say.

"Vot are you going to do about it though?"

"We're going to Berlin for a few days next week" added Isabelle "What sort of things are their to visit?"

"Ohh...! Ze shops are incredible."

Obviously another holiday of a lifetime, as if I needed one.

7th February. Earthquake!

The Sprinter from Inverness comes into view heading south on the line. This'll be interesting I mused since I'm stood balanced on the top of the chimney stack of the former station house, with a 100 litre bag of vermiculite.

Wa hey!

It's a wonder the house has been standing since 1860 odd.

6th February. Climate Change Front Line.

Mr S. takes a phone call - "Another meeting of the flood commitee" he relays.

Quite.

The S's house is on a virtual island on the flood plain of the Tay and each house in the village follows a strict order in which they go under.

Not unlike the global scenario, Bangla Desh, The Netherlands, half of Vietnam etc.

"I see what you mean about the road" I said looking at what had been washed away by the river in the latest flooding.

Well you certainly wouldn't be able to drive up it in a sports car and only just - in a tractor.

He said "I didn't think it was worth repairing until that snow we had last week's melted, better to wait till the end of the rainy season."

5th February. More On Mrs G's Toddler.

The youngster has for some periods today the undivided attention of both his parents and the family dog.

He will go on to show that the first born or only child is on average the more intelligent, not from any genetic predisposition, but simply from the level of adult attention and encouragement in these early developmental stages.

However, sadly the first seeds of neurosis will be sown too, as he will never quite adjust to the fact that throughout adult life his triumphs and disasters will be pretty much ignored by the rest of the world.

4th February. The Lost World.

By the sound of things coming from the living room Mrs G's toddler seemed to be re-enacting various scenes from Jurassic Park, playing most of the characters himself including many of the Dinosaurs.

By late afternoon I would have quite happily shut him in a broom cupboard and that was knowing that at any time soon I would be able to jump in the van and drive away forever, well actually till saturday morning probably.

The broom cupboard would have been standard practice until quite recently, with the proviso that on his release back into 'civil society' he would have been ordered to kneel down and beg forgiveness from God.

One should never hit a child in anger. No - fair warning should be given that a proper leathering will be administered by Pater once he gets home from the office.

3rd February. Gorilla In The Night.

A Budgie fell off it's perch sometime in the early hours, which is just another reason why it's hard to ever get a nights sleep hereabouts.

The procedure involves getting out of bed to put the kitchen light on otherwise whatever bird has lost it's footing can't see anything and is reduced to a complete panic.

This meant being awoken not only in the middle of the night but also in the middle of a dream about the Iconic Woman (see previous).

The iWoman seemed concerned about the fate of a pregnant gorilla, which was strangely much smaller than an actual gorilla, about the size of a Marmoset but still a Gorilla nonetheless.

I'm afraid I had little to offer in the way of advice.

2nd February. Does Exactly What It Says On The Tin?

I even had the guy from the flat below coming up to tell me that there's water coming through their ceiling.

Well I KNOW that. It's just a question of how the hell it gets through the roof of Flat D in the first place.

Seems to be the felt on the flat roof which had a split like some botched plastic surgery job. So in an attempt to patch it up I've been spending up at the local Wickes Store.

Wickes Roofing Felt Adhesive has proved to be a product that is in dire need of reformulation due to it's amazing ability to stick to everything - except roofing felt.

"What's that?" asked Junior about the black marks, when we were through for an evening of videos.

"That?" I said looking at my elbows "Is Wickes Roofing Felt Adhesive."

1st February. Egg Hunt.

About this time of year some hen or other which by some miracle isn't itself a cockerel, gets broody and decides to take off.

Somewhere it'll be sitting on a clutch of eggs each one with a 50:50 chance of being male.

I did the rounds of the garden looking under bushes, in amongst chimney liners, and anywhere else that a hen might find cosy. The search turned up a a few eggs three of which I fried up for tea but no hen visible anywhere.

What we need is a Newfoundland Egg Hound to sniff out these hen fruits, or a Wire Haired Embryo Terrier or an Anatolian Omlette Dog.

31st January. Understanding Toddlers.

You know I'd rather be laying a few bricks for a pittance in a temperature of 2 degrees celsius with a keen north wind than be involved in child rearing.

I was able to observe closely part of a typical day for Mother and toddler.

As far as I could make out Mrs G. does an excellent job, making light of things that could bring a less patient individual to the edge of reason.

She always responds to the as yet incoherent pleas of the youngster without a trace of annoyance and takes the time to play with plastic blocks and the like.

However now and then the gurning would start up again, as if it was basic to the human condition and ever present, just below the surface.

30th January. Midnight Trip To Casualty.

"I suppose just about everyone in Perth has sat here and waited." I said to Isabelle, who was now sitting with some sort of dressing over one eye.

The last trip to casualty involved me pulling down my pants to reveal my arse (see previous).

This time a strange incident involving a cat and finding out just how thin the skin of an eyelid is.

"Tigger has scratched my eyelid", well more like slashed, the same way he slashed poor old Harold the budgie (Deceased).

So here we are waiting with a young man in a wheelchair and a tearful mum, he claims to "know who did it" and also an elderly couple, both Alcoholics, she has apparently fallen into a wall.

Eventually Isabelle comes out glued together, just then someone in the young man's entourage says "That woman's just fallen out of the chair."

The elderly alcoholic woman is sprawling on the blue linoleum having managed this time to fall into the floor.

29th January. Woman's Fridge Casebook.

Mrs B is the sort who has skimmed milk in the fridge next to a large slab of luxury dark chocolate and smokes forty Embassy Regal a day.

It just doesn't add up.

"Do you want a piece of flapjack?"

"No thanks I'm ok, you know there's about half a days calories in one chunk of that?"

The skimmed milk is like a talisman that wards off evil.

.

28th January. Dark Runnings.

I pass a woman running the other way, the light from the street lights isn't quite enough to see what kind of trainers she's wearing, it's unlikely she would notice the absence of footwear on my part.

Of course it's more or less complete madness but if other people can run across a stoney desert surely you can run a few miles on a tarmac road?

Well we're up to 5 km.

26th January. Parallel Lives.

Still squeezing the cat's bladder twice a day...

It makes you think, if you could have seen the path your life would take, would you still have taken that road?

What would be really nice would be to have a Grand Reunion where all the various clones of oneself meet up to share their experience of life.

One interesting clone had just celebrated a 25th wedding anniversary with Junior's mother, he looks a little more tired than the others and wears a heavy knitted cardigan.

25th January. Tar.

"Do you mind if I smoke?" says George after he'd finished his tuna and mayonnaise roll.

"It's up to you" I reply "It's your house'"

"Do you not believe me about the problems with tar in the chimney if you don't have a liner fitted?"

"No, no, I believe you alright, It's just that I'd be saving quite a lot of money."

I suppose if you took a long term view of smoking then you wouldn't smoke would you?

Maybe it's like the first sign of stains on the living room wall and I'll give you a call and we can put a liner in then,

or the first malignant lung biopsy and I'll definitely stop?

24th January. Random.

In a truly random sequence there are clusters of results which human beings are apt to attach meaning to or at least say 'that's weird'.

The P2's chimney is the house immediately next to the H's from just before Christmas, they don't know each other as the P2s haven't moved in yet, it's merely a coincidence.

I meet Mr H from next door when I'm leaving at night, we exchange pleasantries, he says "Mrs H was a bit worried because she read in the paper that your son had died at a very young age.

Quite.

I've heard of this doppelganger in a neighbourng town same name, same spelling and the same middle initial.

Merely a coincidence I assure him.

23rd January. Whistle While You Retire.

Mr P2 has the whistling disorder.

One of those happy chappies who is always whistling a cheerful but largely tuneless variation on an elusive theme.

I thought I picked up some well known folk melody at one point but maybe not, although that would fit given Mr P2's age, circumstance etc.

Mr P2 retired a year earlier than required, he talked of 'Computerisation' and 'younger guys coming through who were more nimble on the keyboard' when it came to 'Filling in the right boxes.'

Or maybe cheerful whistlers no longer fit in todays workplace?

22nd January. I Am Not Legend.

It's Junior's 25th birthday, we go through to see 'I am Legend' and eat Italian meat balls.

I am near my overdraft limit.

I didn't think much of the meat balls or the flesh eating Zombies our man Will Smith encountered either.

The cost of employing Will must have consumed just about all the budget.

Is that because the appearance of Will Smith alone guarantees returns at the box office?

Like sticking the word Italian in front of meat balls?

20th January. Handbags And Motorbikes.

"I don't know what you need another motorbike for, you've already got one."

It's a bit like me saying "I don't know what you need another handbag for you've already got thirty."

It's not always easy to see the other person's position.

As I understand it, one handbag may only go with one or two pairs of shoes and fashion is also in a constant state of flux.

Accessories, especially bags, are a vital part of the look one is creating, some designers command prices that would pay for a weekly shop for the rest of one's natural.

Some motorbikes sound different from other ones.

19th January. Scotland's First Femtown.

Falkland is the sort of village that women remark on as being 'cute'.

To emphasise this Isabelle was up out of bed sharpish because I'd mentioned that I had to be back there this morning - a Woman with a gripe, well a leak.

This was all the more unusual after going to bed about 5 am.

You should be getting a feel now for the drawing power of this fabled conservation village for women.

In fact much of Falkland is nowadays more or less a dormitory settlement for females, Social Workers and the like, who set off every morning to places like Edinburgh adding to the wear and tear on the Forth Road Bridge.

Saturday sees groups of visiting women trawling around the few emporia looking at 'cute' objects d'art, or chatting to other women in the overpriced cafe named after some historical female figure over a Latte and a fruit scone.

Isabelle made a few purchases, "Gifts".

To me some looked rather like stuffed fridge magnets.

This novelty item was a winner, obviously combining two aspects that appeal to women in one, ie: cushions, and 'heart warming' sentiments . Something in the vein of "Friends Are For Life Not Just For Christmas'.

They could have gone one better by filling it with something that smells 'nice' and that would be three in one, four if it was somehow edible and made of chocolate.

18th January. Tibetan Eye Chart.

It was hanging up in the G's downstairs loo for daily practice no doubt.

That looks interesting I thought I wonder what you're meant to do with it?

The instructions were detailed on the rear but not having my Tesco glasses with me I was left non the wiser.

17th January. How To Spend £290 In Less Than Half A Second.

The Apple, newly returned to operational normality last week, tipped just beyond equilibrium when I pressed 'Print'.

Falling approximately 868mm to the wooden floor made a heavy thud followed by a stern rebuke from the environs of the television.

"It's still working I assured."

In the morning switching it on revealed a grey screen with an apple in the middle but nothing further even after half an hour.

"What could have caused that?" said the Apple repair man on the phone.

"I don't know..."

14th January. Easy Listening With Concrete Blocks.

Mr G. works over some heavily arpeggiated popular classic seated at the Bechstein whilst I troop in and out of the front door with concrete blocks.

It could be The Beatles, it could be Elton John, it could be Abba, it could be the Archfiend! - Andrew Lloyd Webber.

It could be anything.

There are limits though, I suppose, to the rendition of popular music into a format for the piano.

I mean when did you last see 'The Jimi Hendrix Experience For Piano' or 'The Dead Kennedys Selected Examination Pieces Grade III'?

13th January. The Best Skiing for Five Years But Not Today.

Not only the best skiing but the only downhill skiing at all since about 1985 in my case.

The previous day queues for tows extended as far as the eye could see on account of all runs being complete and the remarkable sunny, windless and crisp weather.

Today queueing was much reduced, the situation had been normalized like the weather, horizontal rain and sleet.

Young D. who was being 'introduced' to snow sports for the first time kicked up a bit of a fuss, first of all about the tightness of his plastic boots in much the same way the accused might have reacted to the Inquisition's copper equivalents during the pouring in of molten lead.

Isabelle didn't hire any boots, skis or sticks having been emotionally scarred by an 'introduction' to downhill at a similar age.

12th January. Why Andrew Lloyd Webber Should be Boiled Alive.

"Can you turn it down a bit?' I said raising my voice above the Phantom Of The Opera on Channel four.

"NOT DURING THIS SONG!" yelled Isabelle.

Why this song? I thought privately, they all sound the bloody same - every composition of what is considered Britains most celebrated writer of Musicals.

To be fair every composer or band only writes one song, then spins it out with variations until everyone's heartily sick of it.

Marc Bolan, for instance: di-dit dit, di-dit dit and so on.

or AC/DC: Dah! da-dah! da-dah! da-dah! (repeat),

Frankly my idea of hell would be to have to listen to The Phantom of The Opera for eternity or probably any 'Musical',
certainly anything from the pen of A.L.W.

And that is why Andrew Lloyd Webber should be boiled alive, not only as a punishment befitting his crimes but also as a deterrant to other would be composers.

11th January. The House of Sadness.

Sliding sideways off the main road on the compacted slush the 'House of Sadness' swung into view, once again.

And there, still leaning against the chimney stack, glinting in the winter sun was thirty feet of heavy weight aluminium extension ladders.

No news had indeed been good news.

"We were a bit worried during the night though" quoted Mrs C, "Quite a lot of rattling."

If the ladders had blown over and gone through the windscreen of the local bus it would have only been further confirmation of the jinxed nature of the address.

Local rumour has it that relationships seem to run foul of some dark force within.

"He used to tie his wife to the bed" I heard say, of some previous occupants.

Not in some mutually agreed transaction of pain and pleasure, more as one would tie up a Jack Russell whose incessant yapping began to get on one's nerves.

10th January. Cracking on With Fettling Up The Nest

The G's are Empty-Nesters.

As time goes on and any given couple joins the ranks of the Greys, people stop asking the question: "So are you going to have any children?"

It's something that no longer hangs in the air, something that never need be considered again, a chapter in the book of married life that is now closed like an auction on eBay.

One cannot e-mail the almighty to see if some other arrangement can be made.

The G's have three dogs, a donkey, a pony and some other livestock, these will have to suffice.

Of course at their time of life they'd probably be in much the same position anyway as any nestlings would now be fledglings.

9th January. More 'Severe' Weather.

The phone rang as soon as I got in the door, someone leaving a message -Mrs C. going on about something.

I lifted the receiver "The stove's looking very good but do you know there are severe gales forecast tonight? Do you think the ladders will be alright?"

In my mind any mention of 'severe' weather can be ignored in these days of Health & Safety and the nanny state.

"Oh it should be alright" I assured her "They're tied on at the top of the chimney stack."

"Is there anything else we can do?" she asked,

"Not really."

Despite, or maybe because of, the huge weight of the three section ladders I began to doubt the veracity of this dismissal in the middle of the night.

Isabelle claimed she was kept awake all night by the roaring of the wind, reports are of the roof being torn off new student accomodation in Dundee, so far I've heard nothing from Mrs C.

5th January. Off The Rails - Spectacularly.

A vivid dream of a man who looked a lot like me trying to slow the progress of a runaway steam locomotive which was slowly gathering speed down a hill.

The man, who was holding onto a rope and attempting to dig his heels in, was having no effect.

He let go the rope as several hundred tons of loco sped off down the hill derailing at the first bend.

It then continued through a field of raspberry canes heading towards an isolated bungalow with conservatory attached.

The train ploughed straight through the sun lounge before coming to rest down near the river Tay.

"That'll be a job getting that back on track" I comment.

3rd January. Wintry - My Arse!

All very Christmasy out in the wilds, with dire warnings of so called 'severe' weather, a description which would cause residents in Montreal to collapse over their snow shovels.

Would you look at these poor pathetic drivers crawling along, I thought as I gunned it out of Airlie Place, late afternoon.

You see people just aren't used to driving in the snow anymore because it's such a rarity.

However with all the weight in the rear of the Daihatsu and no longer having the luxury of 4WD, (see previous) I immediately ended up performing a 180 degree turn in front of an oncoming car coming to rest pointing due north instead of due south.

2nd January. National Doom And Gloom Day.

Having been cured of innate foreboding (see previous) the 2nd of January brings with it a sense only of having come full circle back to the starting point, although not quite...

The 2nd of January is like that Scottish Country Dance when having gone through the prescribed motions and arrived back at the beginning we all move round one place to face a new partner - 2008.

However by this time it may be that accordion music has lost some of it's appeal.

Somebody should shoot the Accordionist.

1st January. Sheltered Housing Exciting New Year.

Having glanced at the local paper I considered raiding my brother's drawerful of unused Viagra prescription and bringing in the New Year with 'Brooke - slim, friendly, blonde, 0776349...'

It could have been money well spent if Brooke was in her mid-twenties with the body of a Supermodel but that seemed unlikely and to be honest I couldn't be bothered going out as far as the Cashline at Sainsburys.

Poor reception limited viewing to a very unfunny Graham Norton and highlights on S4C from a sort of T in The Park in Welsh, featuring various bands famous in Wales but obviously nowhere else.

By Sheltered Housing standards it was a very late night when I finally got into bed with a mug of cocoa, 11.20pm.

31st December. Care Home Cold War.

Mother wasn't sure if it was New Years Eve or New Years Day when I talked her into coming out in my brothers car.

It was a relief to get her away from trading insults across the residents lounge with 'That Welsh Bitch'.

The Welsh woman refered to has very acute hearing unlike Mother whose hearing aid is away getting serviced presently.

This means that any comments or asides from Mother are broadcast not only to 'That One Over There' but indeed the whole room.

"She's getting herself disliked." says my brother.

29th December. A Private Function.

The annual private function in the Claustrophobic Bar passed off surprisingly without any illness on the pavement unlike last year.

This informal get together is based loosely around attendance at the High School in the mid 1970's or having once owned a motorbike.

"You feel you can relax, there's no pressure to make conversation, not like other parties" said F, "You could just sit in a corner and say nothing if you wanted."

Instead F. sat in front of the open window alternately stripping his fleece off talking about sweating then putting it back on and talking about the draught, before announcing that "Someone had farted."

Long standing acquaintance only highlights just how little scope for real change exists within the human psyche.

28th December. The Silicone Rubber Diaries.

Anyone could have told you that silicone rubber doesn't bond to anything with bitumen in it, in fact I could have told myself but I didn't bother.

It never even occured to me when Ms. S. texted yet again on Boxing Day to ruin my xmas by informing me that water was 'pouring' through the living room ceiling and could I come and fix it 'tomorrow', no didn't register at all.

It was only when I was stood looking at the specific non-adherence that, doh...

Either the silicone dissolves the roofing felt or the roofing felt dissolves the silicone and an unholy goo is created.

I thought maybe I should compile a handy list of these sort of details that need to be remembered like 'Detail No. 1573 Ensure car is in neutral before turning ignition key.' or No 2764 When grilling bacon remember to switch off grill...

27th December. St Trinians - In Depth Review.

Due to yet another mix-up concerning 'I am Legend', which is probably crap as well, otherwise why did they take it off Screen 1? We ended up with St Trinians the choice of either Stuart or the man at the ticket desk who hadn't seen it either.

This film is a chronic waste of British acting talent and an insult not only to the intelligence but everything else as well.

The Director should be put on the child sex offender register then named and shamed.

I quite fancied the one with the dark hair that had the make-over with the suspenders.

I can't for the life of me see what Stuart saw in that specky geeky one with the red hair.

Even Isabelle said it was a 'bit crap'.

25th December. A Christmas Carol.

By formal request a new territory to the south has been opened up to visitors today, namely the Lounge room.

Isabelle's job of decorating the Christmas tree was much simplified since it's already been up for two and a half years.

The clearing of the way to the setee revealed certain evidence of the more unnattractive aspects of the Domestic cat's digestive process.

And not a moment to soon, the fire had been lit, there was a surprise knock on the door, who could that be on Christmas morn'?

Non other than Old Al and P, over from the ever warmer Andalucia, Old Al eschews most if not all of the Yuletide traditions - "Bah! Humbug!"

"Tell us what time you're going to eat, then we'll know when to leave."

24th December. Do They Know It's Christmas Time At All?

Reports from the care home are that Mother along with most of the other residents have been struck down with one of these Winter Vomiting/Diarrhea deals.

This will have further adding to the laundry and the workload for the staff over the festive period. A ban has been placed on visitors.

Thus I have been rather neatly absolved from the Long Drive until further notice.

23rd December. Welcome to Bethlehem.

"I can't believe they'd actually get a real camel into the foyer of the concert hall" I said as we queued up outside in the bitter weather along with mainly believers, i would guess.

"D'you think they're deliberately keeping everyone waiting outside just to impress on them how much Jesus suffered?" I thought aloud, as we gradually approached the mock Roman census.

To be fair we were really only there as a pre-pizza rendez-vous with F&D, who are keen to emphasise the 'true meaning of Christmas' on young L.

To be honest what this amounts to is a mix up over the Hebrew word for Maiden and the shortest day previously falling on the 25th prior to the reform of the Julian Calendar.

20th December. "Couldn't Organise a Piss-up In A Brewery."

The entire restaurant had been booked for one party, obviously this was the wrong restaurant, or the wrong day because it was the right time?

The cinema wasn't even showing the film because it wasn't yet on general release, which was strange.

As there was only one cinema either the town was wrong or again it has to be the wrong day but I'm sure it was a Thursday when I checked.

There had to be a simple explanation.

Right time, right place, right day - errr... wrong week.

19th December. Beavers.

I've been drafted in to Mains of Beaverton to put right a faulty installation, more or less a mercy mission to bring warmth and Pre Christmas cheer, to Ms.M.the tenant.

The Landlord was credited with reintroducing the Beaver to this neck of the woods. On the approach to the house I was able to view some of their unnofficial handiwork, As Jeff Goldblum said "Life will find a way..."

As varmints go the Beaver is quite pesky once it gets it's teeth into a tree, imagine being able to bite a tree trunk.? They seem to go about taking mouthfuls here and there like mice in a potato store.

Anyway Ms. M. said she'd found out quite a lot about the Beaver on the internet,

"Course you've got to be careful when you put the word Beaver into any search engine, some guy at the Hydro-Board lost his job for doing that."

17th December. Have You Got Room For That Aga?

"It doesn't seem to matter what I do..." said Mr A. pulling the large double-doored fridge freezer which was on wheels, out of the way, "...My wife is very messy."

The removing of the large kitchen appliance revealed a detritus of fragmented toys, fossilized foodstuffs, crayons and fluff, I made my way round the laundry basket then negotiated more incomplete toys in the hall then a minefield of bicycles at the front door to get some tools.

I know how he feels, I mused, but really the only solution is to hire a 12 cubic yard maxi skip then fill it up with roughly 70 to 80% of the house contents without allowing any sentiment to cloud judgement.

Mrs A. exposes the fallacy which Isabelle subscribes to - "There's not enough space, if we had a bigger house..."

Mrs A. has had a full three storeys to fill up and has managed that quite well in less than five years.

16th December. The Return.

Rather than congratulating me on the wellbeing of the budgies or any number of cats Isabelle makes a bee-line straight across the kitchen to embrace that malingering chicken.

"What's wrong with him? his comb's all dark! have you been feeding him?"

"Well I haven't actually seen it eating much but it must be, because it's still pooing everywhere."

"He's starving hungry! you've got to hold him still or he falls over backwards......"

Suddenly Stuart's suggestion of putting it outside for the night when it was -6 C. seem like the words of a sage.

15th December. What We Think People Think.

In the local shop waiting in line for one of two women at the checkout with a pound of mince and Burgen Soya and linseed bread - I make a conscious decision.

One woman, the sort that calls you 'Love' or 'Sweetheart or 'Pet', from previous experience definitely thinks I'm not the full shilling.

So I'm going to make an effort to be relaxed, light, chatty, vaguely normal, despite labouring under the negative projection of her own ghastly unconscious mind.

"That's two pounds thirteen, love"

I produce a handful of change in a grimy hand and count it.

"You've given me one pound thirty two.' she intones.

Somehow I have mistaken a twentypence piece for a pound coin...

(Definitely not the full shilling that guy.)

14th December. Chicken Tourettes.

Isabelle is away and I've been given full responsibility for the various livestock including several which are challenged on the defecatory front.

Tigger the paraplegic cat and that mental chicken which has become habituated to the kitchen and spends most of it's time trying to control some sort of tic it's developed in it's neck region.

Actually I thought it was going to manage to wring it's own neck the way it's been going on - the self-dispatching chicken?

People can't understand why when Isabelle's away I don't quietly terminate one or both, fake an accident or simply say that Tigger must have escaped.

That chicken could form the basis of something with noodles or perhaps a curry?

I could even keep some over to heat up in the micro for Isabelle's return.

13th December. A Non-Starter.

I first viewed the job for Ms. S. (SWF N/K N/S GSOH) months ago and over this period I've had many extended conversations about stoves etc. She also occasionally leaves messages detailing variious aspects and even hand delivered the proposed plan one night.

Did this installation really warrant such a degree of discussion with me?

Ms. S. is 'well spoken' and sounds a bit breathy like that woman that reads the traffic updates on Radio 2 having what would be generally considered a 'sexy voice', nice to listen to.

Recently Ms S.'s voice had become decidedly sexier, conspirational even, as if imparting information that was for no one elses ears.

The reason for this proved to be a bad case of laryngitus, then she let slip she'd have to give me the front door key because she was going away with her 'boyfriend' for the weekend...

Well as a sideline in matchmaking I was on the point of putting Stuart's name forward as a romantic interest, tch, tch, tch...

12th December. Nice and New.

No mention of yesterdays fantastic levitation only a request to wear those blue plastic bags over one's boots - of couirse it's the oak flooring.

Honestly, you can see now the level of consternation that would have met a dent in that particular floor.

Minimalism, open plan and newness conspire badly against the tradesman both in terms of how things are 'going to look' and the very unwelcome dust and mess.

Why do they pretend to themselves that they're going to keep it all new looking for eternity?

If they're still together after fifteen years will it look new then? Will she have thrown crockery across the open plan kitchen/ living room, missing him but hitting the woodwork.?

As a general rule, if a couple have spent money on a kitchen worktop custom made in one piece they are probably mental.

I don't know how they can bring themselves to piss in the designer toilet and dirty it.

11th December. Impressing An Attractive Blonde With An Apparent Feat of Strength.

"I don't know how 'He' expects you to get that on it's stand." said the young-ish and attractive Ms. C. before leaving for work in a sports car attired in a suit.

Ms.C. was refering to the stove, weight 142kg according to the installation book, which had to somehow defy gravity and levitate two feet in the air coming to rest gently on it's purpose made pedestal.

"I'll cross that bridge when..."

Having attended to other concerns that 'He" had been getting in a tiz about, the afternoon saw me faced with the levitation problem.

Dismantling bits off the thing in an attempt to lose some weight still saw it resolutely stuck to the new oak floor.

That's when I turned to the Wisdom of the Ancients, did the Egyptians have an extra-terrestrial helping hand when they lifted the blocks of stone to build the Pyramid of Cheops?

No, they used an inclined plane.

Piiling up some unopened packs of parquet flooring and resting a plank on them gave the suitably inclined plane.

All that remained was to drag the monster up the plank without dropping it onto the new oak floor, a dent would be very unimpressive.

So there it was in place and reassembled, with the plank gone like an earth ramp from a Pyramid, the question would always remain "HOW THE HELL...?"

8th December. "Donald Where's Your Fingers?"

Discussion turned to a lifetime working as a forester and the dangers of the job, what with chainsaws, falling trees, rolling logs etc

"I've had a few frights, I can tell you." said Donald.

Now there are always things you're not meant to do but then you get away with it innumerable times and there appears to be vitrually no risk...until...

"I was letting the wire rope from the winch run through my hands when a bit of jagged wire caught my glove and pulled one hand into the winch and the wire crushed my fingers against the drum."

"Are you right-handed?"

"Yes, so I turned the winch off with my other hand, pulled the glove off, just through it on the ground, didn't think anything of it, there was blood everywhere. It was only when I got to the hospital I realised my index finger was inside the glove, by then it was too late."

6th December. More Money.

I'm afraid the Apple died recently. "It's a great computer the Apple, the weak spot is the hard drive" says the repair man who is charging us.

That's a bit like saying the weak spot of the human ear is the ear drum.

30th November. Barefoot Running Thing.

I'm coming round to Dr Oetker's idea that Human Beings were meant to run barefoot.

A slight aggravation in one knee had stopped the running for a while so I took some other literary Docs advice for leg raises with a weight tied to your foot. Mind you I had trainers on when that knee twinge happened, tch tch.

See when you run barefoot the foot naturally lands the right way, whereas if you've got a chunk of shock absorbing foam on your trainers the sole of your foot is too squishy and your ankles bend sideways, not to mention the high heels throwing your weight forward.

But then the tarmac is a bit rough for western feet, the answer is two pairs of socks and because its raining, a pair of Tesco bags with elastic bands round the ankles.

Obviously it has to be pitch dark to avoid having to make any explanation to the neighbours.

I managed a mile and the knee thing seems to be passing over.

You should try it, just land on the front part of the feet not the heels.

I'm aiming to run 5k with no socks on rough tarmac, in the dark.

29th November. I'm Not Sure If I Like The Look of That.

Another Woman whose overiding concern is "How it's going to look." rather than whether the stove is going to set fire to the curtains, blinds, window sill or skirting board.

How would it look then ? Like a burnt out house with the insurance company ultimately quibbling about the minimum distance to combustables.

That wouldn't look good at all, especially for me, I think we touched on the subject of insurance recently...

28th November. Chicken Lobotomy.

That chicken has been installed in the kitchen and just sits in one place all day like a complete dork, periodically dropping it's guts. (Jeezo!)

The vet said, after he'd injected it with whatever drug, that "It would no longer be fit for human consumption on account of the medication being unlicensed for livestock, that's if you were going to eat it."

"I wasn't planning to." answered Isabelle.

Isabelle seems incapable of hardening her heart against any living thing, that is, apart from Human Beings.

27th November. "Our Greatest Glory Is Not In Never Falling But In Rising Every Time We Fall."

I drive back to the M's ruined fire surround.

"What was the verdict?" I enquire of Mrs M's reaction to the irreversible damage to the new fake stone.

"Well the good news is a chamfer would be fine with her but the bad news is none of the chip must show."

This is a tall order, Mr M had already had a go with this bit of diamond tool sharpener I had, it looks like it would take about a month to take enough of the stone off.

I didn't fancy letting rip with any power tools especially with Mr M hanging about in the environs.

To cut a long fiasco short a diamond cutting disc held flat and pushed with a lot of pressure worked.

I was a bit dubious about attacking the front of the stone in the same manner, I mean that really would be staring you in the face when seated on the green leather sofa.

"That's a pretty good effort, though I'll need to qualify that.."

26th November. And Then It All Goes Horribly Wrong, Again.

2pm and things are going fairly normally with Mr M's stove installation although the steel plate is large and unwieldly and the new sandstone fire surround has edges that are vulnerable to things such as unwieldly steel plate...Ooops.

Lifting the plate out for the nth time there's a dull thud as the end of it contacts the edge of the fire surround, I look back, "OH BOLLOCKS! MERDE ALORS! this hasn't happened has it?"

A very obvious chip out of the fake stone. The first instinct is to grovel around looking for the piece or pieces for gluing back in and pretending nothing happened, but the chip seems to have been crushed wholesale.

Mr M is out walking the dog, I have to make a clean breast of it on his return advising that the easiest thing would be to chamfer the edge thus taking out the missing bit... or joeying it up with Araldite and some crushed stone.

A test of the Araldite joeying idea is a failure, the repair would end up like a piece of treacle toffee stuck on the fireplace...

"If the worst comes to the worst you'll have insurance of course?"

"Errrr..."

25th November. Born 1915

I speak to Mother over the mobile networks whilst gazing out of the window of another half decorated flat.

"It's very grey here" she says staring, I presume, through the windscreen of my brothers Vauxhall, at the Irish Sea.

"It's a typical November day" I reply.

"We're just having some sardine sandwiches on the front"

I immediately think Acid Reflux but Mother doesn't know what heartburn is even at ninety-two.

In-credible!

24th November. Spicy Chicken Wings.

Becks beer plus red wine plus spicy chicken wings equals acid reflux.

It's alright for some people, those blessed with the digestion of the Komodo Dragon and by the way, how do they not digest their own stomach lining from the inside out? What vessel could hold such a corrosive fluid?

Perhaps I'm thinking here of Hydrofluoric Acid known for it's ability to dissolve glass, kept in teflon containers.

And then these people relax in a darkened room content with a half pint of whisky complaining that there weren't nearly enough chicken wings, I ask you?

I negotiate my way to the bunk beds rousing Isabelle long since asleep, "I hate it when you're drunk" she comments,

"Drunk?" I say, i haven't had a drink for hours, I don't think the spicy chicken wings agreed with me...

23rd November. Probably The Most Pathetic Thing In The World.

A cockerel with brain damage. That was the diagnosis anyway from Mr W. the vet, who injected it with something that so far hasn't proved lethal.

Yes bullying has proved a very serious matter. Repeated pecking on the head by it's siblings has caused some sort of brain spin or a degeneration something akin to an overlong career in heavyweight boxing.

I can feel another ethical dilemma coming on for Isabelle, who always hopes for a recovery in order to avoid 'playing god'.

Mr W. was all for euthanasia, as is his bent.

For me, Himmler's pronouncement on mental patients in 1930's Germany seems apposite: 'Useless Mouths'...

21st November. "Everything About The Guy Gives Me The Dry Boke."

It may be that you only have one thing in common with a neighbouring couple, namely that their daughter also attends the local primary.

The children become friends, the rest falls into place, involvement is unavoidable

As an older parent you may already be out on a limb, shunned by the Young Mums who are all related to some degree anyway and don't need any 'new friends', now you have two things in common with the other couple.

It seems only reasonable to invite them round, to 'get to know them'...

20th November. "I'll Be In A Motorised Wheelchair For Their Eighteenth."

DM 's view is "You can either have kids earlier on and not be able to do anything but have the option to retire early, or have them late and be forced to keep working to cover the vast expense involved."

Of course the assumption here is the desirability of creating individuals who then blame you for their own shortcomings until they repeat the cycle.

The Third way is to have kids early in life and late in life and then what?

Ans. Go straight into a Care Home. Yippee!

19th November. Puncture.

I managed to sick up some of my fishcakes in the car park from the effort of turning the car jack with a spanner the size of a teaspoon.

Cursing the design of jacks supplied with vehicles and cursing myself for not doing something about it, the wheel finally lifted from the ground after about three-quarters of an hour of rolling around in the rain at ten o'clock at night. By then I was about as wet as when I got out of the Leisure Pool.

And about as wet as this afternoon after a day farting about on a roof ladder out at the Smirf Gulag (see previous).

It could have been worse, I was very aware that I didn't want to be the man trapped beneath his car when the over extended jack slews sideways,

I could just imagine outside lights coming on when local residents finally decided after half an hour that maybe they really should investigate what all that screaming is about...

18th November. Sunday Afternoon Highlight.

Recent inspection of a flat which is rather stuck on the letting market revealed an unsightly black goo where the tiles meet the bath, this may have been putting off prospective tenants. I surmised the failure of some Wickes product, possibly a chemical reaction with the previous occupier's hair care preparation, (I wonder about their scalp).

Pulling off the bath trim left the offensive sealing gunge behind which had the consistency of crude oil such as is found periodically on the beaches close to Milford Haven.

Trying to scrape this stuff off or dissolve it seemed as futile and hopeless as attempts to clean an oiled Guillemot in a vat of detergent.

16th November. I Spend Another Day in The Pub.

This is one of the most luxurious jobs to date, a pot of coffee whisked through from the hotel at the request of the barman before I've even done anything, central heating full on, a choice of menu for lunch and no money need ever change hands.

At one time when a man married, (although it could easily be one of those urban myths), the wife would ask "what would you like for your tea tonight."

15th November. I Spend An Entire Day in The Pub.

The provision of disabled access to the Royal Bar will not require any official enforcement.

The daytime clientele seems almost wholly comprised of people on crutches temporarily and permanently or in wheelchairs motorised and non-motorised.

Customers can choose between Sky Sports 1 and Sky Sports 2 depending on which end of the bar one perambulates to, or watching the woodburning stove man and making comments - "Is the chimney no' big enough for Santa.." etc etc

Lunch time brings in a wave of the semi able-bodied, probably travelling salesman and the like who still spend the better part of their lives in a seated position.

The atmosphere is smoke free, women free and convivial.

14th November. Bin Laden Found!

I must admit this is a dream, in case the CIA is already onto this. If you are - Hi there, it must be a tough job, surveillance.

Isabelle's family by a strange quirk are all Saudis, we are visiting them in Saudi Arabia.

The Grandparents live in what looks like a bungalow with various aunts and uncles thrown in. The entrance hall has a door that looks like a cupboard but is actually a front room.

For some reason they have a lodger staying there who has it furnished as a bedsit. We go in to meet them.

The tenant is a fairly quiet old man who seems happy enough living in there but keeps the curtains drawn and never goes out. They bring his meals to him. I'm surprised to find out it's Bin Laden and he's aged quite a bit from the photographs in circulation.

It seems a bit weird that the authorities aren't wise to this fact, and I assume that Isabelle's Grandfather has somehow bribed the necessary officials.

It's clear that the facts surrounding the house guest are not to be shared outside of the family.

"I wonder if he ever thinks about the 4000 odd people that died?" I mention to Isabelle sometime afterwards.

A woman overhears me in a restaurant and says "Bin Laden? Where?"

"No, no, it's just a joke!" I say in a hurried attempt to cover up my blunder...

13th November. I Hate Electrics.

A guy phoned up last night wanting to know if I could go and look at his chimney in the dark? Then the phone went tonight at 11.05pm and some woman left a message, maybe she was calling from Long Island (-5 hrs)?

Tonight having finally found Mr P's remote house in the pitch black of rural Perthshire to view a new potential nightmare he says " I suppose going to look at another chimney after a day outside is the last thing you want to do."

Well that was quite perceptive.

It seemed even darker than normal trying to reverse the car, the trailer lights had blown the fuse and were now dead, I just had to abandon it outside his house.

"We'll be seeing you again in the very near future then" he commented.

Quite.

12th November. Like A Gulag.

I arrive on-site hoping for some excuse to go away again. Two small wizened Polish joiners don't respond to my acknowledgment of their existence.

In common with many building works the two economic migrants are housed in a caravan so there is no need for them to ever leave the workplace. The general impression this morning, with the low temperature and the mud, is something approaching the ambience of a Labour camp.

The Poles are similar to each other like Ant and Dec but with a touch of Smurf because of the style of hat, they may be brothers or even twins, puffing away at filter tips and knocking in nails with what look like toffee hammers.

Anyway, I just think things must be really crap in Poland...

The owner comes over and tries to get them to do something differently with a hand saw, however they don't speak a word of the Queen's, he walks away in search of Papa Smurf.

The fact is, what they do speak sounds very like English but running through a tape player backwards. I bet if you recorded some of phrases and played them the other way it would say something like 'Paul is dead.'

11th November. Ethics of Veterinarism

"You'd give a gerbil a heart transplant wouldn't you?"

"Of course."

"Even though you could just get another one for three quid, they only live a couple of years anyway."

"Each Gerbil is it's own Gerbil and can't be replaced."

9th November. Cuddly Cows.

So I'm reaching into the W's fridge for the milk, mainly reformed ham and yoghurts, then I turn round and there's this huge cattle beast at the kitchen window, number 187 judging by it's ear tag, sniffing the air.

Compared to the family sized boxed Steak pie on the lower shelf that cow is absolutely massive.

It must be kind of weird dishing up a piece of sirloin or dead cow if you like, with a live one looking through the window at the same time.

8th November. Pure Fantasy.

Mr W's mid-life thing has taken the form of the idea that when the three kids are a bit older he's going to sell the house give them all a bit of money then buy a boat and sail the world.

One daughter who was off school with a vomiting bug was only interested in when she was likely to have her own pony, and spent the afternoon leaving through catalogues of equestrian supplies.

It's a well known fact that horses are a complete money pit second only to ocean going yachts.

7th November. It's A Wonderful Life - Probably.

Mr H. had a vocation for science, perhaps he was lucky, to have a vocation for anything.

Mr H. still thinks of my position as an enviable position, that is driving around looking in peoples fridges, having cups of tea then climbing up a ladder or whatever it is I'm supposed to be doing.

"Would you like to stay for tea?" asks Mr H. as darkness falls at 5 pm.

"Are you sure?" I ask

'Yes."

There must be worse jobs but is it a vocation? Probably not. I'm just filling in time before the wooden overcoat.

Then up the last great chimney - at the local Crematorium.

6th November.My Dead Uncles Y-Fronts.

Mr H. works at the crop research place, I said my uncle used to be the director there until he had a heart attack.

They said it was the job that killed him, couldn't delegate the work, took it too seriously, no family life, all that stress etc, I think he was fifty-two.

After he died my Mother thought, since we were now moved into his former house, that it would be a good idea vis-a-vis sensible economy that I wear out his clothes including his underpants.

The fact is Mr H. had never heard of my uncle which goes to show that flogging yourself to death isn't worth it, neither are the savings from passing dead relatives underwear onto adolescents (in my opinion).

5th November. Pyrotechnic Orgasm.

Each loud bang from above causes any teenage girls in the vicinity to involuntarily scream, as if the screaming function is set with a hair trigger.

The civic firework display follows every Health and Safety guide line known to man and the public is kept at a distance of several hundred metres.

There is no real danger and yet they scream so?

One is reminded of the Fab Four's decision to stop playing live on account of the screaming.

1st November. Local Firewater Trip.

The tour of the Becherovka factory culminated in a tasting of the three variants of this herbal medicinal alcohol, the ingredients of which remain a closely guarded secret on the lines of the recipe for Coca-Cola.

Our guide was quick to emphasise that two shots was the recommended daily dose to benefit from its long proven health giving properties.

However Isabelle found the apperitif a little too 'medicinal'.

I felt it impolite to leave the proffered samples unconsumed so ended up drinking three times what is considered 'healthy'.

The resultant lightening of spirit and exaggerated sense of wellbeing seemed only to irritate Isabelle.