Yes, that’s me. Well, it’s my Santa’s Little Helper Name, anyway. If I use my middle name too I become Licky Horny-Pie which is, quite frankly, bordering upon the obscene.

Talking of Frosty, I’ve defrosted my fridge-freezer. Much easier than I thought it would be: I simply switched it off last night, forgot all about it (apart from leaving a big towel underneath the door) and when I came home today I was reminded of my task by the sound of collapsing ice-bergs coming from the kitchen. Upon opening the door, I was greeted by numerous things:

1. The faint smell of slightly manky and unidentifiable bags of some sort of aeons-ago cookery experiment that I’d forgotten to remove prior to defrosting.

2. A flood of almost Noah-istic proportions that required substantial mopping up.

3. The trumpeting of a family of tiny Woolly Mammoths that had been hitherto locked in the permafrost somewhere at the back, just by where I kept the ice-cream.

Praps I might be able to train the mini-mammoths to pull some sort of sled, then I can train me ratties to ride in it whilst wearing likkle santa hats and they can distribute tiny pressies to all and sundry.

Perhaps I should just cut down on house-work: it just leads to more and more projects, doesn’t it?

‹Begins to wonder how far past it’s sell-by-date that cookery experiment was and whether it was a good idea to eat it for dinner›

Well, it is a King’s wont to indulge in a spot of this now and again. One is only human*, after all.

One spent a frightfully smashing weekend with one’s fellow Grockles; Sir Pharisee of Luton and Lord Motley-Crew of Fareham. Much swigging was undertook, as well as cache-placing, cache finding and walking bewtween pubs.
We went to the Elephant and Castle** in Southampton on Satdee night to slake our collective thirsts only to be turfed out at 8 of the evening clock. Looking at each other in disbelief, we decided to ignore the time bell and I went to the bar to order more swig.
“Sorry, we’re closing. in fact, we wouldn’t have opened at all tonight but for a few locals” quoth the delicious bar-wench.
My proestations at being a local myself (I only live a few hundred yards away) fell on deaf ears, so we quit the pub (and suffered from not being able to letch further at the sumptuous bar-wenches) and hied us to The Millers Pond instead. After a walk of about 15 miles (well, about a mile and a half really, I think, but it felt longer***) we arrived at the next watering hole and once more slaked our collective thirsts.
Evetually, after further letching and a spot of perving to boot, we got a cab back to my place and kept drinking til we fell asleep.

Fry-up in the morning (and there’s no feeling on earth like walking to your local newsy, buying eggs, bacon, tommies and sossies with a very pillow-wrinkled face and definite bed-hair only to find the girl of your dreams serving behing the counter and for her to look mock-disapprovingly upon you and say “you look like you need this fry-up”… really, it saws through the hangover like a very sharp and noisy chainsaw) and after consuming same we diverted ourselves with more caching.

Quite a simple yet fun weekend, all told.

Gimme an ‘S’!

Gimme a ‘Wubble -you’!

Gimme an ‘I’!

Gimme a …. hang on….

*reads up*

Gimme a ‘G’!

Whaddyagot? SWIG!

Night all. Mind how ye go.

*Approximately, at least.
** Also known, by me at least, as the Smelly *ahem* and Arsehole.
*** Right. Who said “pfffffffffffffffffffffffffft”? Come on. Own up or I’ll set Sir Mortington Bear onto you.

It’s 30 years today since Nick Drake passed on. A splendid musician with a hauntingly subtle voice and dextrous fingers with which he would coax many a beautiful tune from his guitar; it’s a pity he’s gone. I won’t pretend I’m some sort of musical expert and waste your time by making you read some sort of over-the-top eulogy, just listen to some of his stuff if you get the chance: it’s delightful yet sad, relaxing yet intense.

Have a looky at this ‘ere website, it says an awful lot about the feller.

‹tries, and fails, to play ‘Man In A Shed’›