A correction is announced

I like how online newspaper articles carry corrections at the end - something along the lines of 'this item was amended on 25 January 2022 at 17.16 to change shit to shot in the third paragraph'.

It's a shame we can't go back and do that with life events. 

The stately homes of Yorkshire

Came across the Bramham Park website earlier today. It's a 17th century pile near Leeds. On the history page one reason for the parlous state of estate finances in 19th century was 'dissipation due to illegitimate children' - perhaps their late lordships should've kept it in their trousers.

As Dennis Skinner so rightly observed, when the rich kids are in trouble they always blame the servants.

Who are Eric and Ernie?

I was watching a programme about Morecambe and Wise when my 22 year-old son came into the room. He looked at the caption on the screen and then asked: 'they look like Morecambe and Wise, but who are Eric and Ernie?' The right blokes, just not necessarily in the right order, as Eric might have said to Andre Preview.

There's no I in TEAM

True. But saying it makes You the W before the Anchor.

Skipping the start of a restful break

 I've been looking forward to this week off work, after all, the pandemic has been stressful and a nice lie in on Monday morning would start the holiday a treat. Unfortunately, my holiday has coincided with the arrival of a skip next door just after 8.30, as my neighbours are having a new kitchen. Add to this the people opposite have just had a new bathroom fitted. Their skip is just being collected as I write at 16.30. In between times, the day has been - loudly - punctuated by the sounds of building work from both houses, most notably by liberal use of an angle grinder and power tools from next door. It's like a holiday on a building site.

Update: the bathroom waste skip is staying put - driver said it was too full, so there'll now be another skip delivered and then both will be taken away later in the week. As Slade so alliteratively put it, Cum on Feel the Noize.

New boots, longer days

 The advent of noticeably lighter nights and mornings has coincided with the need to make an emergency purchase of new walking boots. Last Sunday, I made the unwelcome discovery that my left boot was letting in - very cold - water; hence the emergency replacement.

Can't wait to test schlep this new pair of bad boys...

Wearing in around the house. Clumpy and stiff, but enough about me - the boots are fine.

Saving money, having fun

 One of the more surprising things for me in lockdown is the realisation that menu boxes are a 'thing'. Several companies advertise their willingness to rock up with all you need to cook dinner, so presumably there's quite a market for this.

Just imagine the money you could save and the excitement to be had by making a list of ingredients, then taking it to Lidl, where you can browse at leisure, out it in a basket - or trolley if feeling sporty and adventurous - paying for it, then going home to cook it.

Menu delivery? As Harry Enfield's character put it so well 'I saw you coming'.

https://youtu.be/lq7-cXqDIFM

Lessons from the past

 A couple of years ago, I was working at a place where the boss was much younger than me. He was the typical HR wunderkind - believer of corporate spiel and psychobabble, but generally harmless. Until, that is, we had a disagreement about the way he'd implemented a new policy. In the great scheme of things, it wasn't too big a deal, but - and this was a min wage job - it could impact you disproportionately if you had to take time off due to being injured at work.

By way of explanation, I was employed as a support worker for adults with learning disabilities. The residents, or 'service users' as we were expected to call them, could get frustrated and 'display challenging behaviour' - in other works, they'd give the support staff a slap, punch of kick if they were pissed off or faced with a set of circumstances that were causing them stress and anxiety.

I'd got on the wrong end of a kick doled out by a large resident whose behaviour had been 'challenging' all day, and by the end of my 12 hour shift, decided to lash out. The result was that I ended up with two cracked ribs and a month off work. On my return, the policy implications were made painfully clear - I would only be paid for three days at my full rate, the rest, was at the positively miserly statutory sick pay rate. Perhaps not surprisingly, it was then my turn to display challenging behaviour of my own. This led to an exchange of views with my boss, who fell back on a variation of 'just obeying orders'. Which is when our age difference became apparent.

You see, I'm a child of the 60s, and also a child of parents who went through the Second World War, in my father's case as a conscripted combatant and life long 'antifa', as we'd call it now. The concept of 'only obeying orders', was utter and complete bollocks to me, thanks to my upbringing and later legal education. And I told my boss this, by giving him the reply 'a Nuremburg defence is no defence'. He responded with 'what's that?' - which is when I realised that there are some lessons that have to be learned anew by each successive generation.

It also meant that I was going to get no-where by trying to appeal to his sense of justice - there's simply no room for that type of cock-eyed sentiment when you're climbing to the top and going by the book. Private sector involvement in the social care sector isn't necessarily as evil as Nazism, but at times it sure comes close.

Out paced at last

 Passengers on Northern Rail's 16.36 service from Kirby to Manchester last night had the honour of taking the last ever Pacer service. Introduced in the mid-80s, with a supposed 'stop-gap' life of up to 20 years, the damn things screeched, rattled and lurched along for 35 years before being put out of their (and our) misery.

The cross-pennine run from Halifax to Manchester Victoria on a Pacer was an endurance test for all senses - smell included (they had a definite 'wet dog' aroma to them), along with a bone rattling, teeth loosening vibration.

A very English garden, sorry

A rainy Wednesday in a week off during Covid lockdown with pre - booked (and paid for) entry to Harlow Carr Gardens. The drive there gave a chance to gawp at Golden Triangle mansions from Alwoodley to  Pannal and some greenery.
We arrived to find the obligatory queue and to be told that 'sorry', but we'd have to wait a bit longer as one of the two computers they used for book in had just crashed 'sorry'. This piece of middle class annoyance was given to us by Sarah - who was also 'sorry' about the weather and lack of cafe or gift shop. The queue moved, but Sarah' s sorryness was replaced by Vicki's, who though still sincere in her sorrow, seemed to be a bit more pinched and ill at ease with it. But not to worry, we were soon back into Sarah's sorrowful care as the queue nearly reached the door, the two running an apologetic relay. Then, lo, the miracle happened, the computer had rebooted and we were in. Sarah gave a little cheer and raised both arms in joyful salute as we entered the garden.
Then it started to rain. The woman on the computer, safe behind her Covid precaution spit screen (surely a first for genteel Harrogate) was also sorry about the wait, and the rain.
Sorry.

The new (ab)normal?

Yesterday evening, returning from his allotted daily exercise walk, my son came across two family groups. The first comprised of a mother and two small children, a boy and a girl. The second two adults, two children and a dog - walking free and not on a lead.
The groups were walking in opposite directions along a lane, while the humans kept the prescribed 2 meters apart, the dog ran towards the woman walking down the lane with her children. At which point my son realised that the girl was terrified of dogs - she appeared increasingly anxious and distressed as the dog drew closer and was clinging to her mum.
Noticing this, my son went forward, spoke to the dog and held its collar, then directed it back to its family.
In normal circumstances, this small act might have elicited some thanks, but not last night: both groups told him he needed to be stay 6 feet away. At which he turned and walked away, to the sound of the child's resumed crying.

The joy of angle grinding

I'm all for taking up a new hobby when you're in lockdown, but my neighbour's new found love for angle grinding the afternoon away is something I hope proves to be very short lived.

Al fresco dining

From the smell coming from next door, the neighbours' barbecue is going to consist of axle grease burgers.

Saturday night takeway

I met a man in our local takeaway this evening who was getting a bit arsey as his order was delayed by 10 minutes. The staff were snowed under with 'phone and Just Eat online orders. Then the thought struck me: what on earth did he have to rush for? In the 'new normal' 10 minutes wait for a curry in neither here nor there.

Double decker zone out

On my home on the bus the other night, I was a bit surprised when the driver didn't pull up for ky stop. He didn't get too far, as he then had to brake for standing traffic. 'I wanted that stop' I saId, to which he replied, 'Sorry, pal. I zoned out for a minute'.

That's 40-odd feet and 14 tonnes of hurtling forgetfulness.

Hard sell

Just asked a stallholder in Halifax Borough Market if he had a screen protector for my phone. He responded by telling me I should get a toughened glass one instead and immediately began attacking his own screen with a screwdriver. Funny place, Halifax...

Name on a Pacer

'John. Got some good news and some not-so-good news for you're

'What's the good bit?'

We've decided to name a train after you're

'Great stuff, but what's the bad?'

'It's a Pacer'

'Bugger'.

Bradford Royal Infirmary air pipe insertion

Last minute change of plan before surgery last Thursday meant I had to be given a general, as opposed to local, anaesthetic. 

I've had general anaesthetic before but the anaesthetist did warn me that the air pipe might make my throat sore.

I don't know who did the actual insertion, but four days on and swallowing is agony, looks like soup for Christmas and my throat feels a third of its normal size.

That pipe must have been inserted with all the care and attention of a plumber suction plunging a khazi.

Like a knife through...

Brand new knife, straight out of the wrapping earlier on Tuesday, washed and into the knife block. I go into the kitchen around 10.00 to make a cheese and pickle sandwich (red leicester, by chance).

I don't skimp on the cheese in a cheese and pickle, so I'm about 4 slices in when I become aware that the blade on this Arthur Price stainless steel job is loose in the handle. Not to put too fine a point on it (which the knife soon proved it certainly had), there was a definite wobble.

I took the knife in my left hand and felt the 'wobble' by moving the blade with my right. And ended up putting it straight into my palm. Knife through butter, knife through palm.

Now it wasn't just the cheese that was red by name and nature. Add the floor, kitchen cupboard sink and worktop. The caring person at 111 and her nurse colleague urged me to go to A&E. Arrived at midnight, left at 4.00 am, then back to another clinic at 8.00. Told to come back at 11.00 the next day, so home at last after surgery at 10.00pm on Thursday night. A long drawn out affair for a moment's idiocy.

Stitches out day after Boxing Day and a course of antiobiotics to add a further dampener to the festive fun. Having a shower with your right arm in cling film is a fetish kick too far for me.

Choking a porpoise

On my GP's advice, I bought some Vitamin D supplement the other day.
As befits something vaguely medicinal, the tablets come in a sturdy plastic container with a strong 'pull off' seal strap.
The pack is 3 inches tall, that's 78 mm for us remainers.
On opening it, however, the tablets barely cover the base.
There's a lot of fresh air and plastic left over. Probably enough of the latter to choke a porpoise