bluebottle

It happens... http://news.sky.com/story/snakes-on-a-lane-villagers-told-be-vigilant-10352980

Hang around; I'm training it to turn into a snake...

My local pillar box has suffered, yet again, from the incompetence of heavy-handed and footed van and lorry drivers. As you can see from the royal monogram, it was planted during the reign of His Majesty King George the Fifth and could be over a hundred years old. The regular batterings it has received have rarely put it out of service for any length of time, and I hope to see it brought back into use again. By the way, that's my stick in the picture. It helps me stay mobile while a calf muscle pull clears up.

The slight tilt in the picture makes it look like that gable end is cowering back in wide-eyed apprehension.

View from my bedroom window this morning. I wish the doctor would land the Turdis in the next street once in a while.

My first impression was that she appears to walk like Teresa May; i.e. bo$om thrust forward and sit-upon backward. This is not a politically motivated observation, I'd feel constrained to comment on Jeremy Corbyn if he had a similar gait. Edit: Why won't that stupid censor let me type a lovely word without resorting to subterfuge?

Does that mean the film "The China Syndrome" was misnamed, then?

Well, he was somewhere in the backwoods of Montana when Tom D posted the joke about a year ago!

Now I do my best to understand all this electrical chat, honest, Brian, but I thought that rouge was something that jewellers and young ladies used ...?

Now, where does the actress come into that? (Ahem!)

To me, the way I speak is immaculate RP, but I must admit that there could be admixtures of Leith and Sheffield present. These don't really explain why various individuals have taken me to be a Londoner, or Liverpudlian, or a Teuchter, or an Irishman, or a Canadian, or a Pole... to mention a few I can remember. All I can say is that many of my interlocutors must find me unwittingly hilarious...

Why do I so often hear women addressing each other as "Guys" these days? Guys are men, Women are Dolls! Runyon rules, OK!!

Sitting here drinking lots of coffee and musing over yesterday's funeral. That's five this decade so far; wife Liz, Mil Dorothy, fellow first original occupant of our cul-de-sac from '84 Steve and two close friends since early 70s Livingston - Jim and, yesterday, John. A sweetly-sad day in the company of old and young friends, tributes alternating with recordings of John's own singing and guitar (he was a fine folk musician) and a (live) duet by his wife (they lived apart, but had remained on good terms) and daughter. I won a bet with myself that we'd leave the chapel listening to John's rendition of Rab Noakes's "Together Forever". Then to the Grapes in Trippet Lane to eat, drink, sing and get closer to people.

I think I'm losing the will to live ...

I see, thanks for the clarification. Despite their being about talking animals dressed in human clothes, I preferred the Rupert Bear stories, myself.

In the words of Penny Hofstadter, "What-the-hell was all that about?"

I can sympathise with you there - I've been visiting the Northern General in Sheffield for a number of reasons (nurse girlfriend, day release training as a theatre technician, angioplasty, coronary bypass, miscellaneous A&E etc.) since the late sixties, and get lost quite frequently. After any even minor surgical procedures, I've had to wait for wife, daughter, BiL etc. to come and collect me - luckily they all seem to have a better sense of direction than me...

When Liz died, the Sheffield Co-op Funeral Service did a good job of the funeral at a fair price, so when my MiL Dorothy - Helen's Grandmother - died down in Leicester, I contacted the Midland Co-op. They were adequate in their service, but a bit more expensive and a little less friendly. As Liz didn't have much of value solely in her name, I didn't need to seek a grant of probate then, but it was necessary in Dorothy's case. The Midland Co-op sent a chap round to assess the estate, and he came up with a total charge for their services - £9K+. This with a will on a single sheet of paper making Helen executrix and sole beneficiary, Dorothy's brother would not make any claim, and obtained a written assurance from their sister that neither would she. Still staggered by the estimate, Helen asked me to make the application for probate. The online "Money Making Expert" was reassuring about a DIY job, and, having looked at a couple of books in WH Smiths, I found a free PDF on the 'net covering the same ground. As a former wages clerk, Dorothy had kept good records of her finances, and we had no difficulty in obtaining statements from banks and other financial institutions. I found a freelance (properly qualified) surveyor to value the house in Leicester. The probate office in the Sheffield law courts were efficient and helpful in checking our collected documents, Helen made an affirmation (being a non-believer) at a nearby solicitor's office - a small fee, but we'd have had to wait a week to have that done at the Probate office, which could now hand over the grant. Helen was able to collect all the funds from local branches of the various banks etc. I can't remember exactly what the outlay was, but I certainly managed to save Helen over £9K, even after the purchase of a Hornby "Cock of the North" as a thankyou.

Literally, it means "I pray (i.e. beg or implore) you", it's more polite than saying "s'il vous plaît”, but, depending on context, it can mean "please do" or "don't mention it". I don't claim to be much of a linguist, but no doubt Ian or Jamie will put me right if I slip up.

Shakes head in admiration...

The first item on my crib sheet is "Parlez lentement, je vous en prie, monsieur".

I have a problem with people speaking quicker than I can listen. It can be quite embarrassing when I'm addressed by individuals capable of machine-gun diction, leaving me looking blank when they pause and wait for a response... If a thing's worth saying, it's worth saying at a measured pace!

One of my uncles used to tell people, straight-faced, that he'd killed more Germans than any other man in the British Army. After letting that sink in, he'd then explain that he was a sergeant cook in a WWII POW camp. After the war, he was a Chef in the famous Cafe Royal in Edinburgh, but when he applied to emigrate to Australia, he was at first turned down - he shouldn't have said no, he hadn't ever had to make damper before - but saved the day when he mentioned that he was a trained butcher. If that hadn't got him in, I think he was going to mention his war record...