Ahhh, there’s that special little feeling you get sometimes isn’t there? Y’know, the sort you get when you spend half a day Geocaching with some good buddies then go to meet even more good buddies for a pub lunch (this, obviously, entails the enquafflement of ale) then pop out from the pub to find just one more cache. The afternoon sun shines down upon four ever-so-slightly-tipsy… well, three ever-so-slightly-tipsy and one nominated-driver-sober… figures as they amble along, up hill and down dale, to their final cache of the day. Already that day deer have been spied through undergrowth, mud has been deliciously squelched underfoot and the best laid plans of mice and men have been undermined. So, after finding our final cache (and after carefully re-hiding the cache by placing a huge rotten tree on top of it) we ambled back to the pub enjoying, nay, basking in, the warm afternoon sunshine and watching the undulating hills of Berkshire move steadily as we weaved our merry way downhill. Good grief, I almost felt like bursting into song. I would have, if it were not for the absolute cast-iron certainty that m’fellow amblers would have pinned me down and force-fed me rabbit-droppings until I promised to shut up.
Still, it was amusing to hear one of me chums proclaim thus: “Hark! Is that a dog I see yonder?”, to which I had to reply with a degree of honesty: “Nay, Keith: ’tis a horse. It’s just far away”.
Such golden moments maketh a man smile for more than a while. In fact, I’m still grinning now…

Oh and we ran over a pheasant on the way home. I’ve never seen a pheasant explode before. They look like pillow-fight-aftermath when they get hit at 70 m.p.h. The car behind us probably had a much more spectacular view than was granted to us via the rear windscreen, but we enjoyed it anyway. I’m also sure the pheasant was not amused, indeed we saw it’s eyes pop out on Tom & Jerry stalks mere nanoseconds before impact. I wonder if it managed to say the pheasant equivalant of “Oh dear, I’m about to die again” before it died again†.
I’d better go and say a few Om Mane Padme Hums before I retire to my pit or my Karma will be too tarnished to make it through M*nd*y M*rn*ng without having to slam my head in a drawer a few times.

† Pheasants are like Cockroaches in this respect. They sufffer from instant re-incarnation. My reasoning is that there are so many of the damn things always meeting sticky ends that I’m convinced they must get re-born to be able to pop up (and then rapidly down again) at what seems like a moments notice.
It’s that or they’re early experimental models of Terminators, just waiting for sufficient technology to get their revenge upon their persecutors, i.e. us.

‹Glances guiltily at pâte jar›

Good grief, I’ve been bloody bored today. I could have gone into work to do some… er… work but I couldn’t be bothered. So I got up at about 7 o’clock and pottered around for a bit. The suddenly!! a flash of inspiration hit me. It didn’t quite strike me between my eyes as a flash of inspiration is wont to do. No, it hit my arm. I decided to finally get ’round to the much needed TLC that is required by my 12-string geetar. The one with the tuning peg missing? Y’know the one. OK, it’s not really a grumplemaphone (as previously claimed), I was just being silly. Sorry ’bout that. Force of habit, doncherknow… Anyway, I ‘phoned the nearby music shop and asked if they had any sets of strings of a 12 string geetar.
“Indeed yes” was the helpful reply. Hurrah, thought I. Encouraged by my initial success, I decided to push the envelope.
“Would you, by any chance, have any replacement Tuning Pegs? I need a new one” I asked, expecting to have over-stepped my mark.
“Indeed yes, also” came the even more helpful reply, which was quickly followed by the quite frankly astounding “We can even fit it for you while you wait, if you want to pop round this afternoon”.
Well, with an offer like that on the table I couldn’t very well hang about in my dressing gown could I? I dressed hurriedly and hied me to the wonderous establishment with me 12-string on me back. Well, OK, it was on the back seat of my car but that’s good enough. 4 wheels on my waggon and all that. *ahem*
Anyway, I got there and handed the geetar over to the clever young chap who knows about these things, and was suitably chuffed when he gave a low whistle and muttered something along the lines of “Wow, what a lovely instrument!”. Feeling rightly pleased I explained the situation and away he went into a back-room to do his business. In the meantime I decided to pick up some maintenance essentials: Lemon oil, a set of strings, a few more plectrums (plectri?). I popped these on the counter and, whilst waiting, browsed the classical music section. I chose a few CDs (Rachmaninov’s Piano concerto No. 2, the one he wrote after his course of psychiatric therapy; Vivaldis Four Seasons and Wind Concerti; The music Of The Last Night Of The Proms) and added them to my steadily growing pile of purchases. It did occur to me, briefly, that I might be over-stepping this months budget, especially as I also purchased The Antipope on CD last night. “To hell with it” was the immediate reaction that sprang heroically to the front of my mind, so that was alright then.
The chap came out of his back room after a further ten minutes perusal of the curious items on display in the shop (I had no idea Ocharinas could look like that, how odd) to inform me my geetar needed a bit more effort than a simple removal-and-replacement-of-tuning-peg and that it would be a better idea to come back later to pick up my faithful instrument. So I paid for my selection of goods, left my ‘phone number and address and the set of strings to be fitted (OK, I’m a lazy swine…) and buggered orf home, like you do.
3 hours later, I got a call from the music shop. I had two choices: Either A) have an Eleven String Guitar or B) Wait While A Whole New Set Of Twelve Tuning Pegs Are Ordered And Fitted.
Well, Option A sounded far too “Spinal Tap” for my liking, so I plumped for Option B. I was suprised and relieved to hear that a new set of tuning pegs would only cost a brace of Crisp Fivers, but it’ll take a week to get them in. I suggested the music shop keep hold of my geetar until they arrive so they could fit them next saturday and I can then have my geetar back, resplendant in it’s former glory.
I hope it’s done right. I’m missing her already. As yet, I have not named her (á la BB King’s Lucille) because I’ve never considered my playing good enough. But I realise now that’s not the point. The point is, I’m without one of my geetars for a week and the afformentioned pang of fondness clearly indicates that all my geetars have Souls and therefore should have names. Any good suggestions, anyone? So you know, I have one 3/4-size Classical, one regular Epi Dreadnought Acoustic and, of course, the Glorious 12-String.

Today’s number of crank calls from stupid B.B.E.G: 3
This afternoons fillum: The Abyss Widescreen Special Edition With Extra 28 Minutes Material

‹Attempts to learn the rest of Classical Gas: fails yet again›

Ahhhh, a quick tasting of Rum ‘n’ Ginger and I’m ready to blog again. Of course, the *mumble* bottles of Circle Master had nothing to do with my blogability at all, oh no no no.

So. Here we all are again. Isn’t this nice? Any trouble getting here? Roadworks on the A303 you say? Oh, bad luck. Wrong type of snow? Tch. Not like when I was a lad. Yes, I agree: all caravan-owners should be shot on sight.

OK, so I’m using distractionary tactics here. I know you all want to see my pâte (no, that is not a euphemism) in it’s finest gory glory. You sick puppies. Don’t you realise that only a year-and-a-half ago that pâte was running ’round a French farmyard trying to bite the farm cat? I’m sure the cat deserved it, they usually do, so it’s a jolly unfair end for the poor Goose. As such, I’ve decided to name my jar of Foie Gras Pâte. I shall call it Berne Santa Pate, as prompted by a Baby Name Generator I found.
I’m even thinking of changing my own name to Sinclair Randall Stevens, because that is the sort of stupid thing I’d do. You could even call me Sir Randy if you like, but I doubt I’d answer. I was called “Oi! Grumpy” earlier this afternoon, and my response was immediate. That must, therefore, be my natural name. OK, so my response was to raise a certain two fingers of my right hand, but it was good enough to get my point (or both of them) across.

OK, Ok, so I’m still using distractionary tactics already. Oy vey, give a poor boy a break! The real blog is thus:

I was supposed to meet someone at a certain pub in Southampton at 9 pm last night. A female someone (stop nudging eachother at the back there, Jagger, James and Goodway). My taxi (hey, I was intending to have at least *some* alcohol!) arrived late and got me to said pub at 9.15. As I paid the cabbie, I spied someone who may well have been the poor girly I was due to meet entering the pub. In I dashed, only to be faced with an Alice In Wonderland experience. My white rabbit had totally disappearded. Well, I ordered a pint of lager anyway (I rarely trust proper beer from an unknown pub) and propped up the bar for the next hour, in the hopes that I’d been utterly mistaken and I hadn’t missed my contactee. Every time the door opened to admit a fellow seeker of alcoholic delights, I was greeted with a gust not only of cold air but also a gust of mockingness from the all-too-astute-bouncer working the door. I gave it all up as a bad job at ten of the evening clock and walked home through the snow-slushed streets of Southampton, wondering what I’d done wrong this week. I mean, it’s not as if I’d been eating pâte or anything.

Phrase of the evening? “Bah.” If it were Xmas I’d risk a quick “Humbug” too. Still, there’s always next week. Hopefully she won’t have concussion and totally fail to recognize me next time.

‹Glares right back at Pâte›