Thursday, 14 November 2024
Bloody roads!
Wednesday, 13 November 2024
Gap Year
It's been 30 years to the day since my daughter, Tenpin, flew off to Bangkok with her friend Karen to begin their gap year tour of the world.
I don't know how many countries she visited, but it was lots. She was away for about a year.
Like all young gap year travelers, she worked her way as she went. Picking Tomatoes here, and Baby Sitting there. She did whatever came her way to pay her passage. Not once did she write home for funds.
She recently posted a load of photos on Facebook from her trip, amongst which was her passport photo (above) from the time.
She loved Australia so much that she now lives there, and has done for over 20 years.
Tuesday, 12 November 2024
THAT Single Malt.
I've decided that I will grit my teeth and finish the dreadful tar-flavoured bottle of Single Malt that I bought about a year ago. There's not a lot left, but in my constant battle against waste, I see it as my duty to finish it, and not use it as drain cleaner.
My daughter-in-Law, Suzie, was here the other evening and I asked her to taste it. She was as shocked as I was that such things were actually on sale; and at a serious price.
Anyway, I'm holding my nose and having a few sips every evening before bed. I'm treating it as medicine, although I have no idea what ailment it could possibly treat.
I've decided NOT to buy my annual bottle of Single Malt this winter, instead I've bought myself a bottle of Rum, a bottle of Tawny Port, and a bottle of Amontillado Sherry; none of which has yet been broached.
The Aerstone Single Malt hasn't improved over the past few months, it still tastes of tar. However, I'm determined not to tip it down the sink, and will endure the pain. It should be all gone well before Christmas.
Monday, 11 November 2024
Our animals.
Sunday, 10 November 2024
Puffin.
This (below) is a bench dedicated to the memory of my old friend Puffin. I go past it twice every day whilst walking with Billy. Occasionally I sit and reminisce.
Puffin (a.k.a Peter Powell-Stevens) worked in the realm of 'The Arts'. I never asked him exactly what he did, but I think it was something to do with photography.
Sadly his marriage came to a sudden end and he quit the family home, which was at the end of our street. He wandered 'aimlessly' around Brighton, and to all intents he became a homeless tramp. On one occasion he even asked me for a few quid, which I was happy to provide.
To keep warm and comfortable he would often travel on busses; his favourites being the ones that went on a continuous circuit around Brighton, where he could hide away in a corner and go round and round all day long.
On one such excursion he died. No-one noticed; they simply thought he was sleeping.
Yes, poor old Puffin died on the No 7 bus, and no-one noticed.
RIP Puffin.