The Offensive Handbag

Before heading for the wilds of Luton Airport, I carefully read the instructions,
“no sharp objects, no explosives, no contraband, and pack the case yourself” – I would just love to know who, but me, is going to pack the case, being rather lacking in valets and maids you know.



I flew by Easy Jet, cheap and cheerful – and having checked that the handbag’s contents were blameless, and myself looked likeways blameless, arrived at Luton Airport.

Said goodbye to my bulging suitcase at the desk– the checkout girl, cheerful just as EasyJet promised, tried not to laugh, when she weighed it. It was pretty much on the limit.

Things went peachy; found the right gate, with the right plane, going to the preferred destination. I was a happy bunny, as I went through the security checks.

Until the security guy beamed in on me handbag – it’s just a handbag, black, blameless, and totally non- threatening.
Or so I thought.





But Mr Security didn’t think so – I watched in horror as he grabbed the blameless bag, and held it right up.
“Whose is this?” he bawled, and I had to own up. Me.

The guy took everything out – my pen, my notebook, my purse, my specs case….my mobile, all my things were laid out on the bench. Then he produced a little gadget, and scanned the lot. He even read my notebook with all my passwords in it!
“Going to Berlin are you my dear?”
“Yes, holiday!”

With an offensive handbag you know.



Mr Security repacked the bag – thank god he didn’t check my hand luggage; he would have found my bag of bottles and lotions, polyfilla and miracle cream.

Bloody Hell.

Charming a Lama - Maybe

Rostock was simply great fun – for Christmas, it’s a gas!

Serious stuff, these Christmas markets – don’t go if you are easily tempted. Nope, don’t.






Eating is a must, I mean, you must eat there and everyone enjoys it….this a queue for potato cakes







A man with lama advertises the circus…..






I try to impress the lama



I fail


And last but not least – The Hat





I blame the Kraut – its her fault, totally and absolutely that I bought it – I will never get over this
And don’t play with my plaits.
Or else.
Trouble
Yep.

Orff to see the Kraut

I 'm orff to see the Kraut tomorrow - she lives in Rostock, East Germany. Not sure how much cultural improvement I will acquire.

In a recent conversation, she said "This is NOT the time to diet!"

Oh hell, that does sound dangerous.

Better pack some waist expanding trousers then.

And that's before Christmas!

Help.

Stuff me a Turkey

Over here in Blighty, we are the proud possessors of our very own cheeky chappie
Jamie Oliver




He tosses things into a bowl, throws ‘em into the oven with many a “You know what I mean?” and says ‘Booutiful’ a lot.
It’s all very nice, he’s cheerful and is careful to keep his ‘Lunnon’ accent – and he appears on TV a lot.

But I am fed up with hearing his chatty little voice every time I visit British Home Stores - the first time, I thought it was just bad luck, as his advice on how to stuff things into turkeys, followed me round the store.

As it’s Christmas, we must of course hear about that, so British Home Stores were playing a video.

The second time, I realised it wasn’t bad luck, its my doom; there it was again, only this time the tape had got to a fairly explicit part of how to introduce substances into a turkey.

Damn it, there must be some grounds for taking this to a Human Rights tribunal…or do I mean the Turkey Tribunal?

In Flanders Fields

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below

It is Remembrance Sunday.

We can’t afford to forget the men and women who don't come home from wars. My generation grew up in peacetime, we heard the grown ups talking about it, sometimes.

My mother rarely spoke about her time in the war (WW II) Once she talked about an officer who was a passionate grower of roses. All he wanted to do, was get home and grow his roses. He didn’t make it.

It’s total sodding madness

We are still at war in Iraq, and people don’t come home.

It’s total sodding madness

How can we forget?



In Flanders Fields

First published in Punch, December 1915, this memorial poem was written by Dr. John McCrae, a man of high principles and strong spiritual values. He died in 1918, days after being made senior consulting physician to the British Army. No other Canadian doctor had been so highly promoted.

Homer Simpson is My Cousin

I was reading a good blog about the technically challenged among us –his nifty new mobile phone nearly gave the guy a brainstorm.
“Thank God for that” I thought “I’m not the only one.” It’s nuts, I should be able to cope with this stuff, I used to work with audio visual equipment, all the time.

The photocopier got tetchy? No problem, grab me tweezers and yank… and hope the engineer never catches me.

A few posts back from this, I revealed a few of me troubles with The Thing, my yummy Xblade computer; even now it does things I simply don’t understand.

I try to burn a CD
No way baby, not in your lifetime.



I really sympathise with Watski, him and me sing the same tune – his mobile does nasty things as well.
Watski's

I am never ever gonna get one of those all dancing mobiles, my brain fries as it is. Punch a few buttons…..ding a ling ling, Sod All ,happens.



I think I need a techno brain. No scrub that, I have to face it, Homer Simpson is my cousin.



Bloody hell, we ARE cousins.

The River 2005

November already and nearly the end of 2005 - looking over the blogs I realised that 'The River' is nearly a thread on its own. I have compiled them here, in order of publication, before they get lost in future blogs.

Gold on the River



October 2005 (Google search)


Dog Days of Summer





September, Iffley Lock. (photograph, PJ Smith)


Life on the River




View from the lock (Photograph, PJ Smith)

Down by the River



July. The Lockeeper's Cottage, Iffley. (Photograph, PJ Smith)


Amid the darker notes





July, view of the 'Bumps' Iffley. (Photograph, PJ Smith)

Gold on the River

Gold on the river, as the season changes and the colours have lost that vibrant promise, but all the same, every last day that holds off winter’s grip, is to be enjoyed. Mild enough, although the river is running full, and the trippers' boats have gone.
The water pounds through the weir at full pelt, frothing to a white cream and eddies and swirls in restless patterns. Muddy and full, the river reflects October skies, as the last leaves fall, floating away in a convoy of gold.


(Iffley Lock)


Now you can see the skeleton outlines of the trees along the river bank, no longer hidden in green, leaving a faint haze of beige and brown. The summer people are gone, leaving a fisherman, huddled on the path, wrapped in blankets and thankful for the peace, no longer tormented by small children feeding the geese, who always scream when the birds get too hopeful.



Most of the geese have gone now, only a handful parade the river, content to cluck gently, gone are the screaming displays of bravado, and the claiming of territory. No sign of the swans either, who used to assert their authority at intervals by staging rather spectacular displays of beating up the river, giving everyone the chance to admire their impressive wing span.

When our pair of swans are feeling especially belligerent, they float alongside the towpath, hissing theatrically at the walkers; it’s best not to take their insults too personal. I used to take revenge, by refusing to feed them, but I admit to softening up when I saw them create a perfect heart shape, bending long necks in submission.



Summer’s peace has gone, even the willow tree that bends down to the river, no longer hangs in graceful ribbons, as the wind tosses them into tangles, destroying their oriental tranquillity. Instead, the ground is covered in layers of big gold leaves, that rustle and hustle as you walk through them, just asking to be kicked and shuffled in.

When it frosts over, leaving the banks stiff and icy, I’ll bring some food down, just to make sure the ducks are all right.
Quiet now on the river, with short days of sepia brown and speckled skies of blue and grey. It’s beautiful.

Sorry You Hamsters

I have been watching the disclosures across the Pond, and I have to say at times my jaw drops open.
What’s going on? Since when did members of a country’s government engage in activities that are potentially damaging to their own country? Since Bush and his minders came into office is the answer.

The unlawful disclosure of an agent’s ID is treason, there is no other word for it; but why should any of us be surprised? Georgie Bush seems to have the moral fibre of a hamster.
(Sorry to all hamsters, folks)

His minders, e.g., Cheney and co., are bandits, they rape their own country, take the States into a war, for their own profit



I’ve said this before, that we can accept our politicians with all their faults; but not, a bunch of bastards with no integrity at all. They dishonour us, they give us a rotten stinking deal.



(Lewis Libby, former chief-of-staff to Dick Cheney)


No wonder, Uncle Tony holds hands with his friend Georgie – both from the same stable.

Over here in the UK, stuff gets murky: Mr Blunkett, (work and pensions secretary) who has been in and out of office, now OUT. A man who is known for chasing young women round London, and then asking them to have his babies (The Sunday Times.)
Also a man, without integrity, and lots of very poor judgement, kinda forgot to tell the House of Commons, his Boss, and any one else, that he had a few business deals going on.
“Conflict of Interest” words, dear David has ignored.



But Uncle Tony has told the BBC that Mr Blunkett is a ‘decent and honourable man.’
Well, there you go, the moral fibre of a hamster.




Sorry you guys, real sorry.

The Yellow Blob

Ahh well, can’t be hanging around the Thing all day, so patting it on its shiny blue head, make usual mad dash for the bus.
Never know these days if I’m late or not.
Used to rely on seeing this woman in a yellow coat walking up to the bus stop.



Fall out the door, look for Yellow Blob walking up the path – she always looks like one of the Moomins, even her hair is a Moomin style thing.


(for red, substitute yellow, and you get the idea)

Not once, have I seen her hurry, let alone run.
I run, my God, do I run.
The Yellow Blob never does. No matter what, Yellow Blob walks slowly up the path

Now the blob thing has disappeared…no more Miss Moomin, no more yellow blob

Gutted; now I just leg it and hope the bus is there.



Gone, just like the Moomins.




Just not there

Freddie the Great, if not the Good

My love affair with The Thing continues……





I got the sound drives loaded today

I played Queen

AWESOME

Oh Freddie, the great if not the good




Jesus, did the guy belt it out


Freddie Rocks

Bad luck to all if you don’t care about Xblade ‘puters and the glorious Freddie…yadda yaddda…..