Blame

I suppose one of the few things for which I can consider myself blame-free (and possibly this applies to men in general)is tissues in the washing. Certainly when I emptied the machine tonight, hung out the washing, and felt free to comment on the bits of tissue stuck all over the darks, I was not subject to any adverse reaction, or counter-argument, and was even allowed a little whisky, which was brought down by herself from Scotland, only yesterday.
I am even allowed a little tolerance of my possible tropical lurgy. Last husband she had she had no sympathy at all when he had what turned out to be pneumonia. So that's a good sign, too.

The East Neuk

We went up to stay with M's brother in the East Neuk of Fife. Well not with them exactly but M hired a cottage
and I hired a car to get us from Glasgow Airport. Top marque, as you can see.
It cost twice as much as I expected and we hardly used it (except for picking up her dad from Cupar station and for me returning it to Glasgow Airport, to save the £35 it would have cost to return it to Edinburgh Airport, from where, bizarrely, I had booked my return flight. It went like a rocket, though). I had to catch bus/train/bus back to Edinburgh, which must have saved all of £10.
Lots of walks along the coast, to Pittenween

and Elie,

from our base in St Monans, where sadly boatbuilding is at an end. A local man is single-handedly dismantling Millers boatyard and presumably sending the scrap to China.
It is quite bizarre to be sitting outside at 1130pm with the sky still bright. A different country indeed.
Sadly I am now back in the south struggling with a possible tropical virus, while M and her dad, brother, nephew and sis in law are enjoying the northern summer.

My Own Attempt To Destroy The Planet

13 flights in 2 months, and I can confirm that all airport terminals are the same, inside and out (with the honourable exceptions of Exeter and Puerto Ayacucho (Vz) which are largely single storey). So that is Heathrow, Lisbon, Caracas, Lima, Cuzco, Glasgow, Edinburgh and Manchester. Could be anywhere. Same architect, same shops (well, mostly), same inside and out. And as for a 3 hour stopover in Manchester between Edinburgh and Exeter: simply bad planning. Oh and the queues at Lima airport do make it stand out.
Time for some carbon offsetting

Dad and Dover

Overlooking Dover Harbour from the White Cliffs was probably my dad's favourite spot. He could watch the constant flow of ferries plying across the Channel to Calais Zeebrugge Ostend etc. And if you walk a bit you can see the castle and along the white cliffs.
Dover itself is the armpit of the world imho (I base this opinion on spending an evening there once waiting to catch a 1am ferry).
Therefore it was appropriate to have a family gathering on the first anniversary of his premature passing to celebrate his life and spread the rest of his ashes to the four winds. Bizarrely, mother chose to store and transport the ashes in a huge tin of SMA baby formula, with a sticker marked "porridge" on it. Dont ask me why.I said my bit, as did mother, sisters and niecefriend. The whole thing was positive, especially for my mother, who has taken a while to come to terms with the loss of her husband of 50 years, and to cope with the things he would have dealt with, but she is getting through it. My dad wont be forgotten in a hurry but her life goes on (she has even sold her car and bought a new one, and found a new male friend). He is there for her every day, and the same for me. There were plenty of tears but we all got through it. I have certainly grown up a lot since a year ago. I dont think here is the right place to express the profundity of feeling felt there, even if I could express it, but there is an empty place in my heart.
Then we had a picnic, drank dad's favourite wine and went our various ways. But not before Badger got in on the act. . And here is a badger's eye view.

He's Frank

Many years ago, when I lived in a grotty flat in Loughborough, I had a cat. His name was Frank, which, in my opinion is the only name a cat should have. He went hitchhiking with me on occasion (and did he enjoy a trucker's breakfast), and also travelled by train (walking up the carriage looking for him by peering under peoples' seats did cause some embarrassing moments). He was clever enough to use tools (wooden ones).
I was reminded of him the other day, when I spotted this cat at the bus stop (there he is, to the left).
Not the first time I have seen this cat. It goes shopping too.
These days, my cats are rather less adventurous: Monty is a lazyarse who weighs far too much

While Buffy does little more than venture into the back garden occasionally, when she is tired of spraying the kitchen floor

Too fast to live

This motorcyclist filmed him and his mate doing 170mph on a public road. His mate copped it going up the A30 west of Hayle in Cornwall, and had his head and legs cut off in the accident. My lovely colleague H says she has been up to those speeds too. Luckily she doesnt have a bike anymore (and nor does my other friend who has seen it, hey Om). No gore, just death. He wouldnt have known much about it. Penzance aint that exciting you have to rush there so quick! I only ever made it up to 120 in my beemer when it was quiet, and now I dont bother with a car.
Click on the video "play" and then drag the video forward to about 2/3 before the speed mounts to stupid.

So young, so stupid

This Charming Man

Neil Armstrong, the first man on the moon, has rarely given interviews, but I found this today, in a magazine
One small step for a man, one giant leap for mankind
Allow 15 minutes, but it is riveting.
Of course this goes hand in hand with the apocryphal story of what he said, afterwards: "Good luck, Mr. Gorsky."
And I quote:
Many people at NASA thought it was a casual remark concerning some rival Soviet Cosmonaut. However, upon checking, there was no Gorsky in either the Russian or American space programs. Over the years many people questioned Armstrong as to what the "Good luck, Mr. Gorsky" statement meant, but Armstrong always just smiled.

When he was a kid, he was playing baseball with a friend in the backyard. His friend hit a fly ball which landed in the front of his neighbor's bedroom windows. His neighbors were Mr. & Mrs. Gorsky.

As he leaned down to pick up the ball, young Armstrong heard Mrs. Gorsky shouting at Mr. Gorsky, "Oral sex! You want oral sex?! You'll get oral sex when the kid next door walks on the moon!"
Not new, but still funny.
And here is a picture of my lampshade, endorsed by Neil's colleague Buzz Aldrin

Inaction, Reaction

I was walking down to the post office to pick my latest eBay purchase, when I walked past a 4x4 parked with its' engine running. There is not a lot you can do with these careless individuals pumping muck (diesel) into the air for no reason, (my mother lives by a railway crossing where 3 or 4 trains may pass before the gates open, and they all leave their engines on despite the signs) so I passed it by. Into the PO and I saw the guy at the counter mouth my name and head off for the returned parcels section (I'm a bit regular down there).
Walking back, glancing at my new comics, and the 4x4 was still sitting there, engine running (and it had been at least 10 minutes). I glanced up from the comic, looked at the bonnet of the 4x4 and (I thought) imperceptibly shook my head. No eye contact, nothing.
REV REV went the 4x4, "Your f*cking head will fall off!" shouted trhe merry driver. I ignored it and carried on walking (although on second thoughts, perhaps I should have gone back and asked him if he was shouting at me), and then got a load of horn noise as he drove off.
I think I scored a point there. I wonder what, if anything, was going on in his mind.

Try Everything Once, Except Incest and.......

.....Morris Dancing. If there is one thing I dislike intensely, it is Morris Dancing (and incest, obviously). So when we arrived in the Pasty Capital of the World (that's Pasty as in pastie, the Cornish pastry and meat/veg/cheese based handy meal, not pale-faced emo-goths who need to get out more in the daylight), that is St Just, I was more than a little distressed that a Morris Dancing Festival was in full swing. There were at least seven groups/troupes/bands, whatever, of MDs there in the square. Fortunately, once we had gritted our teeth and fought our way past, in the garden of the Star they could barely be heard, nor in the Wellington, or the Commercial, or the Kings...
Still, other things went well. I walked from the campsite to the Crowns below Botallack,

and along to the point across from St Just.

And this morning M and I went to Logan Rock, where her mum used to sit, many years ago, and from where we have strewn several sets of ashes of her family members since.

Kitten, Cat, Interview Preparation, Car

1. You can see from the Title, I am going for a theme tonight, or not
I am stealing this from my son, as his blog is still experimental and open to me nicking his entry.
On a cat theme, I was driving home from the allotment last night when I saw a cat cross the A379. On The Pedestrian Crossing. Too quick for a photo.
And the idiot was in tonight, not scuttling around on her belly like a rat for once

2. One way of interview prep, when you are going for the job you are already doing, yet not being officially acknowledged as doing, except for temporarily being paid a little more, is to butter up the boss. Make him smile; do stuff he has responsibility for, but you have done, and let him take the credit; take the the initiative and do stuff he doesnt even know he should be doing; present him with problems and then give him the solution, already prepared. I am working on him.
Other interview panel members: present sickness form but dont have it signed off: coming to work although still ill; take on other tasks that they should be doing but cannot find the time; attend meetings with them and be annoyingly self-confident. It is all actually preparing for firstly doing my intended job, secondly, helping the poor fool who may get appointed instead of me; and thirdly, well, I shall have my revenge.

3. Driving to work this morning, we stopped at the newsagent as usual. On restarting, the car went "click". Tried bumping it. Nothing. Local boys come to help from the adjacent cafe, Last of the Summer Wine style. More fiddling and bumping.
"There's two things wrong with this car"
"hmm?"
"The starter motor, and it's an MG"
"Thanks"
Favourite garage was out to us in 10 minutes and dragged the bastard off. Tempted with the (S)crappage scheme.