Who sleeps in a bed like thiiis? POIROT does!

Who sleeps in theRolls Royce of beds? The opportunistic 'Bed Consultant' trying to persuade me to upgrade our proposed Vi Spring to the 'Signatory' model was indiscreet enough to reveal: "I sold one of these to *Poirot* you know. You can have a name plaque like *he* did"... lol. This was tasty gossip indeed, being a huge fan as I am - the very bed where Hercule rests his little grey cells. Gateway to a world of inter-war dandified lugggsxxxury, Belgian truffles, Chaps, Saville Row tailoring, sweeping curves at Whitehaven Mansions, the Charleston, decadence at Quaglino's, the Orient Express, ocean liner opulence... (gasp) oooo, ohhh the image so very nearly coerced me.

I was pleased (and almost uncontrollably amused) to note that it was the fictional Hercule Poirot who bought the bed, and *not* the actor David Suchet. I appreciated the distinction. Who knows, perhaps Mr. Suchet popped into the store in full Poirot regalia, dressed as befits the occasion of buying a ten thousand pound bed... One can just imagine the scene - the costume-padded rotund little man trotting around the store struggling to mount and dismount the lofty beds. I wonder if he brought Miss Lemon along to test the firmness of the mattress [1], or perhaps that cheery saphead Capt. Hastings to ask ridiculous questions about hand nested calico pockets:

"I say old chap, how's your horse hair? Golly, I do like a hand teased long strand. Is it *loose*?.... Well I'll be damned, is *that* Belgian ticking? What a jolly fine double stuffing you'll have here Poirot!"

On as almost completely separate note, the average high st. bed guy is no less seamy than your typical Carpet Shite (sic) salesmen. The obscenely, nauseatingly perverted Benson's Beds vulture was actually touching cloth as we bounced about on the bed testing the movement transfer. Euuuuggghhhh. "When you finally decide to go to sleep...". Foul.

[1] Miles, knowing your fondness for Miss L. as I do, I urge you not to try this at home... She is *too* autistic for you!

The Wrong Stuff

Spotted, Monday: Mucky Mark Wright, of 'The Wright Stuff' coming out of the Instant Tan Centre on James Street, Marylebone on his mobile phone with a bottle of tan deepener, and a lol languorous leer for Jonny. He's absolutely frightful in real life; taut stonewash denim, faux leather jacket, and a waddle so confusing to the rear fabric of his jeans that he *must* have had over-ripened bum grapes.

My mind boggles, his *will*

So we're moving in less than two weeks time. It's a good time to start packing the things you know full well you won't use/ consume/ strap on before the move. Today we picked up some sturdy wine boxes from Sainsbury's, and filled them with the week's food and wet bog roll. (And some more wine, I noticed, despite being told to pare heavy goods purchases). Anyway, on returning home, I packed up all the bottles of spirits, a couple of bottles of vintage champagne we'd bought during the Thresher's yuletide bonanza, and most of the wine, leaving 4 or 5 bottles to see J through the pre-move.

The Panic set in pretty quickly, with Jonny hastily rummaging through the boxes, 'sweating cobs' and accusing me of lady-controlling his epicurean enjoyment of good wine. Or, as he put it, looking at the full wine rack I'd left: "Ww-w-where's all my wine?" Now, he *knows* that between now and the move, the only beverage propah I'll be drinking is half a bottle of pop when we exchange contracts. His drinking regime at home is never more than half a bottle of wine or a couple of beers... no more than 5 nights a week. Unless, of course, we're socialising, taking all the edges off, or my Dad's staying. Despite this, he's arranged for the following items to be made available, remaining unpacked :

1 bottle Sancerre
1 bottle Pinot Grigot
1 bottle Chablis
3 bottles '05 Bordeaux (on special offer today)
Several shots worth of Zubrovska Bison Grass Vodka (traditionally a 'quick fix' when aforementioned Dad is in town)
1 bottle sake
1/4 bottle VSOP champagne cognac

We move in 10 days.

He says that to ME?

The Bogs, Me, Jim, Gills
Originally uploaded by Caroline M.

Just had a chat with my Dad about Building Regulations, and managing the unreasonable needs of Estate Agents who're trying to steam roll us into signing a contract before the searches are even complete. Jim - perhaps one of the most boorish, opinionated, inappropriately risqué and downright offensive conversationalists I've ever known, chips in:

"Just call them Cal-line, and use that gently persuasive tone I taught yer, and no firing up with your... how shall I say? Heheh... your abrasive manner heheh... ok Love?"

Harumph! I assured him that my abrasive manner is reserved chiefly for 'Daddy Dearest' (as he's taken to calling himself). Yes yes, I know he *means* well.

Pulling the wool

Heh heh heh. What's the difference, this way or that?

Short shorts

Volte face VOLTE FACE I was screaming inside as I cycled behind Jonny today. I didn't think anything could be more horrific than the thought of seeing him in cycling shorts. They're for professional athletes, who rely on their super smooth dynamic technology and air vents, and for NO-ONE else. It's not that Jonny is ugly of body or anything, just that it's not right, spesh when you've got a high rising butt. The long legged fitted gear are somehow fine, the short cycle shorts, not. It's for this reason that I've never suggested he buy any proper cycling kit, for fear that he'd buy the shorts. But with the sun out today, he'd switched his usual jogging trousers for a pair of short shorts. Yikes. The shorts were billowing in the wind, rising ever higher as he bobbed and bounced about on the potholes, blissfully unaware of his rising hemlines. Beware oncoming traffic, you're going to get an eyeful. Bensta, I'm reminded painfully of your ball slips during cross-legged relaxation in the orange shorts. No pic avail :-(

As planned, we stop off at a shop selling exercise equipment. The employee is faultessly helpful and informative, and it's all going very well. Then the boss, a strapping rehead enters. He's clearly perplexed by Jonny's attire, and trying his best to answer our questions sensibly. We're all stood there talking figures, and yet all so distracted by Legs Eleven. Boss, who was sat down, unable to escape from Jonny's legs, battled on with his sales pitch:

"Yes we can certainly discuss these prices... it depends what mood I'm in... if I've got my negotiating hat on (unsettled now), and had my lunch already (trying not to look at the legs) I might be feeling generous."

I had to say something; everyone was thinking 'Why is this otherwise normal looking young man wearing thin flimsy swimming shorts in my face, it's March. I'm not enjoying this, am I?'... So I chipped in: "Yep, so basically, come in just after lunchtime and when Jonny's not wearing short shorts". Phew, the salesman could chuckle at last. Jonny seemed to breathe a sigh of relief, having been a bit confused with the strange atmosphere. I think we'll head to a cycling shop sometime soon. It won't be easy though - he's a defiantly shameless short short wearer. He really really REALLY REALLY really is. As his close male pal, it falls to you to say something, Aleeexxx...

"I am a CUSTOMER, NOT an inconvenience!"

Much amusement at the Bristol branch of The Woolwich this afternoon. Banking hours are laughable, we all know this. What type of business closes at 4.30pm in the afternoon to its customers? So today we turn up at The Woolwich with cheques in hand at 4.26pm, running late, nothing new. We have a system of once-a-week-bAnking, getting there as late as possible in order to a) have some semblance of a normal working day, and b) piss off the bank staff. Today they thought they'd had the last laugh, as the doors are locked when we arrive. I don't have my watch on, am irked that the doors are locked, assuming they've closed at 4.30pm on the nose, probably a minute earlier, but how to prove that?

Jonny though, has his watch on. His watch is 5 mins fast and it's showing 4.31pm so he *knows* the lazy sloths inside have closed early. Now we're mad. Jonny starts knocking on the door and ringing the bell. He's not giving up. Then he starts pointing to his watch and banging (the door) a little. "I'm know it's not 4.30, I *know*. I've got a right to get in here until 4.30 on the dot". The staff inside seem to be scurrying into back rooms, scared of what this man with the big hands gesticulating wildly outside might do.

Amazingly the Chief chief in the branch marches over to the door and lets us in. "I'm sorry Sir... we appear to have had a problem with our clock." Ha ha ha. Likely story. Back in the day job, when, inconceivably, I was awarded the title of 'Head of IT' for my ability to find the 'Task Manager', I abused my posn. by regularly moving everyone's PC clocks fwd just a little. The golden rule of taking the piss is: 'Don't take the piss', and The Woolwich wenches had gotten greedy with the clock. The clock cheating cover-up was farcical. They'd hastily taken the main clock off the wall and the Manager was heavily beaded with panic sweat, ordering a young boy to remove the other clocks. The lad look confused, probably because he'd been sent around earlier in the day to move them all forward.

Manager: "Oh I'm sorry, we usually check closing time with the Talking Clock, but today we forgot". Yeah yeah, your in-branch clock skipped 5 mins in one day did it? Wow. As we banked, the cashiers got a cute little telling off by their manager who was reminding everyone that, had they not discovered the inaccuracy, this man banking his cheques "...could have reported us to Head Office"... Jonny simpered, unconvincingly: "Ohhh Iiii'd *never* have done that". Yes we would.
Customer- 1 Corporation - 0

Confessions of a reformed Northern pie eater

The benefits of decent aerobic exercise, I'll explain wtf in a sec:

• Lungs become larger and more efficient, increasing O2 throughout body
• More red blood cells
• Heart and lung muscles strengthen
• Cardiac output increased so heart has to beats less
• Resting heart rate decreases, heart lasts longer
• More capillaries, healthier organs
• More mitochondria
• Better muscle endurance
• Decrease in Coronary Heart Disease risk
• Decreased blood pressure
• Increased bone density which needs to be built up in youth
• Body fat decreases
• Bad cholesterol decreases
• Increased flexibility
• Stronger joints, ligaments, tendons which can't be significantly improved in old age
• Increased blood and oxygen flow to the brain
• Increased growth factors that help create new nerve cells
• Increased chemicals in the brain that help cognition
• You can sometimes eat a pie
  

This morning, I heard an obstructively large individual exclaim: "What do I need to exercise for? I'll just have a Diet Pie for lunch". Pfffff!! I immediately longed to counter-obstruct this carefree pie-hard by standing in front of him in the Greggs queue, wearing a tee shirt emblazoned with the above list. Diet Pie? Now, I remember my exhausting pie days, and I wasn't aware it was possible to make pastry without a subcutaneously crippling blend of lard, suet, shortening and various other mortal ingredients. I *definitely* recall the satisfying effect of pure lard in my meat 'n potato pie lunches, flushed down by a slice of 'fruity' winberry pie. This, shamefully, had *nothing* on the freshly delivered cheese 'n onion pastries in kidney gravy, sloshed down with a 'cancel-the-swimming-training-I'm-grossly-fat' custard tart for 'afters'. So, hardly surprising that the 'Diet Pie' concept confused me. I'm guessing that Greggs are now offering a 'reduced' fat puff for the weight conscious. 'Reduced fat', of course, meaning 'a bit of a smaller portion', or '99% fat only'. It's food industry knavery.

There's no point Govt. complaining about obesity and not regulating the dishonest food industry, is there? (I'm still reeling about Ginsters healthy snack 'solutions'). Anyway, I wish someone had pointed out the dangers of the two crust (and smoky bacon crisps, choc Hob Nobs, doughnuts, Milk Tray, Frosties & Drifters) to me as a tween. I feel sorry for my younger pie-eyed, pig-ignorant self. I blame my poor, put upon Mum. We lived above a pie/pizza/chip/sweet/booze/sandwich/grocery store during my formative years, and the corned beef 'n onion barm cakes she'd make for the 'deli' minded passing truckers made me violently ill. Catering Margerine nearly took my life. If you've never had it, it's way wayyyy worse than 'Stork'. The taste and texture conjures a sensation of having wiped your tongue in the pussing moob fat of a bloated syphilitic cadaver recently dragged from a toxic waste plant. It'll put you off animal fats for life...

No matter how fastidiously we prepared my sandwich, in isolation of any thing which had come in contact with the evil marg., somehow a smidgen of the synthetic yak would rub its way onto my Corned Dog Bap. It was then that Mum (exasperated by my picky tastes and mistrust of her food prep.), suggested I eat pie produce for lunch; delivered freshly every day, full of quality ingredients, and, crucially, made by someone else. 'It's only shortcrust, meat, and vegetables'. (Yeah, like the time Falafel King said Falafel was just 'beans and pulses', no deep fat fryer here officer).

So in addition to Sat Fats tax, they should post some sort of laminated [1] warning of the cons of pies for everyday use, and the pros of regular exercise in every fast food outlet, school dining hall and maternity unit in the land, with the added note that a desperate dash to the Cornish Bakery Outlet does *not* constitute vigorous exercise. Mind you, digesting a 'Wigan Kebab' [2] probably would.


[1] They will hock their meaty ketones on it.

[2] Miles, I hope this isn't lost on you...

Working from home, 5pm Friday

Sitting in the office with small [1] business partner/ my old man, no employees, and I ask: "Can we discuss the surveyor's report?" (on the house we're hoping to buy). His response, with not so much as a smidgen of irony:

"Err, I thought we could do that *outside* of office hours" ROFL.

[1] The business, not the man.

Farmers are the new Anarchists

This news clip about a Farmer's hilarious attempt to build on green belt land and get away with it had me chuckling, especially as council planners can be so corrupt themselves. Building on green belt is obviously distateful and wrong, but his night-time building escapades and panto concealment are deliciously farcical. What an entertaining twunt. Watch the video!

It reminds me of the day a distantly related fraudulent Farmer was hauled in for Tax Evasion, lol.