The Kingdom Tower; but Kingdom of what?

                                  

The most obvious question must be WHY!

WHY would anyone want to build a skyscraper ONE KILOMETRE high? (It was originally intended to be ONE MILE high!)

The problems in building such a tall tower are almost countless. Imagine the pressure needed for water distribution, how long it would take to get to the top, or even the complications of the sewerage system.

I hear that to reach the pinnacle several different lifts will be needed as the chains begin to stretch after a certain distance. This means taking one lift to a first level, then taking another one, and then (if one was mad enough to live at the top) taking a third. Anyone buying the penthouse apartment would need to spend quite a while in three separate lifts to get home; you wouldn't want to forget to buy the cat food!

Saudi Arabia is not short of empty space (unlike London or New York), so going 'sideways' is not an issue.

This silly billion dollar Kingdom Tower is just a big ego-trip for Prince Al-Waleed bin Talal. He wants THE TALLEST; perhaps he has shortcomings in another area.

Maybe, when it's finished, the whole caboodle will be blown over by a sudden gust of desert wind; you wouldn't get Cro up there, that's for sure!

Bloody Viruses.

I've recently had a bloody annoying virus (or viruses) in my brand new laptop.

Where it came from I'm not sure, but it seemed to attack after my having looked for something (not bought something) on Ebay.

Luckily I have a friend and neighbour (Craig) who is a genius at such things, and after much hand-wringing he managed yesterday to administer the correct amount of antiviral TLC.

Perhaps the most annoying part of the whole episode was that after No 1 Son (Kimbo) had paid handsomely for a year's worth of Mr McAfee's (deepest protection) 'LiveSafe' security system on my behalf, the bloody thing failed to deliver after just 3 months, and even had the cheek to demand more money.

The virus itself had various evil effects, worst of which was probably all the ads for dating agencies and soft porn sites, that were popping-up all over the bloody place. I ignored them all, but this only made them angrier (and multiply).

I do hope my friend Craig is reading this..... He's saved me from spending the rest of my life in a mental home for deranged Silver-ish Surfers. Merçi; je vous suis infiniment reconnaissant.

Craig has also injected some brand new Microsoft antibiotics, that hopefully will stop these idiot bastards from effing-up my machine for the foreseeable future.

New Depths.

I recently received this kind (snail mail) letter from Mr Huu Hann offering me the opportunity (I imagine) to make lots of easy dosh.

As tempted as I am by the thought of instant wealth, I think I may decline his generous offer. Although Mr Hann claims to be a 'dear friend', I don't actually remember him meeting me.

I do like the way (in the final paragraph) he puts the onus of trust on ME, when I myself was almost wondering whether I could trust HIM; silly me!

Mr Hann does sound awfully nice, but this time I think I'll leave the easy money to someone else who really needs it. 

I noticed that it cost Mr Hann 53 pence to send this tempting letter; I do hope he hasn't sent lots of them. His telephone number (+8270) suggests he lives in South Korea.

Have YOU been tempted by the delightful Mr Hann?

Happy birthday Freddie.

                                    

Freddie is 10 years old today (28. 05. 2014).

The years haven't improved him. He's still as self-centred as ever, still has that miserable arrogant look that many tabbies have, and is still as unfriendly as he's always been (unless he's sleeping, curled up under my chin at night).

However I do like old Fred. He's quite cheap to run, he's very seldom sick on the carpet, and he can still chew the head off a mouse.

May I suggest that you don't look into his eyes for too long; you might fall into some life-altering trance.

Happy birthday Fred. Tuna for supper (if you're lucky!).

Le Jardin.

Someone recently made a kind comment about my garden, so here is a panoramic view.

This is the spot where we usually sit in the evening, under the shade of the Quince tree, partaking of our daily medicinal refreshment.

I look after the nearest part of the garden myself. As for the rest, down into the distance, I have 'men' who come in and do the work for me.

I think they look after it quite nicely, don't you? (and I don't pay them a single centime!)

Knowing one's Onions.

I've just run out of my own-grown Onions. The usable ones have all been used, and the sprouted ones chucked on the compost.

So, for the first time in years I've been forced to BUY Onions. Quelle horreur!!!

To add insult, I've just noticed that the one's I bought came all the way from New Zealand.

OK, I do buy, and enjoy, New Zealand frozen legs of Lamb; but ONIONS?

This is just plain bloody stupid. 

As for my own 2014/15 Onion crop; they're coming along nicely, thank you.

Fangi-Cro.

                                 

When I was about 16, and still at school, I had a friend whose father was not only extremely rich, but also had a passion for expensive cars and motor racing.

The son (let's call him J) had grown up surrounded by people like Sterling Moss, Graham Hill, Jack Brabham, and Jim Clark; as a result of which he rather fancied himself as a future motor racing champion.

To pamper his son's fantasy, his doting father bought him a Lotus Formula Junior car, exactly like the one above.

One Sunday J said he was going off to Snetterton race track to do a spot of practicing, and he invited me along. I watched as he did circuit after circuit, until he finally pulled-up in front of where we were seated. To my utter amazement he then asked me if I fancied doing a circuit or two myself.

Not wanting to sound like a sissy, I immediately said 'yes', and squeezed myself into the tiny cockpit, which seemed no bigger than an aluminium cigar tube. J ran through the finer details with me, and off I drove.

Driving the little Lotus was not complicated, but the sensation of lying just a few inches off the ground was quite frightening. I whizzed round the track at a staggering 25-30 mph (or even less), thinking I mustn't crash, I mustn't crash, I mustn't crash.

When I pulled-up I remember vowing never ever to get into a small racing car ever again. Of course I didn't actually say this to either J, or his father.

I do enjoy driving, and I enjoy speed, but not in one of those things again; thank you very much!