Day 134: A World Away

All it takes is four hours in the car, but Fowey feels a world away.  A room in the pink-washed King of Prussia, with a huge sash window looking right out over the river estuary.  No internet signal and water so soft that tea brews clear amber.  A little orange boat chugs sturdily across the water, ferrying handfuls of people to Polruan and back.  It smells of diesel and rope.  At Polruan a path climbs high onto the headland.  Sun hot on my head, blue sky and banks liberally scattered with primroses and violets. 

Back in Fowey, the light fades and jackdaws mess about on the ridge tiles of the British Legion.

Day 133: Peas and Sitting

Killing time in the Museum of London.  The galleries dedicated to early London are rammed with school children clutching questionnaires, and looking underwhelmed by the pottery fragments.  Things get more exciting further along the timeline, and the small cubby hole housing a looped film about the Black Death is crammed.  'Black pustules' intones the narrator with relish, invoking a frisson of excitement.

My standout fact is that Julius Caesar described Ancient Brit males as having long hair, and moustaches.  Classic 1970s.  Very happy to think that the ancestors were running around like Ron Jeremy.   

Downstairs in the modern London galleries, I am delighted to see this (left).  I remember the Less Protein man - he was often around Leicester Square tube station.  I engaged him in conversation once (actually less a conversation, more a one-on-one rant).  That day he was particularly vocal about peas and sitting, in addition to the more obvious protein-based targets (meat, eggs etc).  He died in 1993, fortunately well before the mass popularity of Atkins.

He had limited success with his twenty-five year campaign.  Probably because there's a basic problem with his message.  Most people want more passion, not less.

I bet Ron Jeremy isn't scared of protein. 

Off for some peas and sitting. 

 

  

Day 132: Catching Clarkson

Today takes me to Stafford.  There is the choice of normal M6 or special M6 (with toll attached).  Although, of course, both routes come with a price tag.  One is financial, the other is emotional.  I choose to pay the emotional toll, and am stuck behind an elephant race.  A dogged cavalcade of lorries pretending to overtake each other but actually just staying two abreast.  Probably comparing cab curtains.  Which means that everyone else is seething in the 'fast' lane behind an old man in a Honda Civic, resolutely driving just a fraction faster than the lorries. 

As always, when I make this decision, I realise that it is the wrong one.  It is absolutely worth the cash for the unalloyed joy of spanking up a deserted road like it's the 1970s. 

Oh God.  I sound like Jeremy Clarkson.  Eugh. 

I could go on to extend this whole toll shtick into a metaphor for the price you pay for things in life, but quite frankly I can't be arsed. 

Shit.  I have, haven't I?  Somewhere along the M6 I've caught Clarkson.  (Checks mirror anxiously for symptoms - eg chin enlargement and racism.)

Day 131: Wisdom of Steve

"When I was seventeen, I read a quote that went something like: "If you live each day as if it was your last, someday you'll most certainly be right." It made an impression on me, and since then, for the past thirty-three years, I have looked in the mirror every morning and asked myself: "If today were the last day of my life, would I want to do what I am about to do today?" And whenever the answer has been "No" for too many days in a row, I know I need to change something." - Steve Jobs

I hear you, Steve.  Loud and clear. 

Day 130: Ghost Tits

Special sexy red

Today takes me up the A5 (not a euphemism).  Long, straight and distinctly Roman.  Skirting the Hertfordshire village of Flamstead, a fast ribbon of road with scrubby verges sparsely punctuated by a series of shabby establishments.  They unfold with a sense of narrative charm.  A couple of basic chain hotels - Premier Inn and Holiday Inn Express.  (Bed?  Check.)  A Little Chef and a dubious-looking curry house.  (Nosebag?  Check.)  And a pub.  'The Junction 9' - which offers 'Exotic Dancers' - from 1pm.  You can tell that it's a special, sexy pub, because it's been painted special, sexy red.  (Daytime tits n' beer?  Check.). 

Ferrers goes starkers

From the ridiculous to the sublime.  Past Markyate Cell - a beautiful Tudor house nestled in the Ver valley running alongside the A5.  It was home to the notorious Katherine Ferrers (aka The Wicked Lady - widely believed to be the highwaywoman who terrorised the area).  She supposedly haunts the house and grounds, and also Nomansland Common near St Albans - the scene of many of her crimes.  Her ghost is keen on swinging from trees, totally starkers.  Wicked.  Or just exotic? 

That's Hertfordshire for you.  Not only daytime tits.  Ghost tits as well.

Day 129: Ninja Dates

Stream-lined and Modern
(apparently)

I am changing the system.  The 'Day One Hundred and...' titling is getting too much, so I am going all numbery (stream-lined and modern).  Being as I am, that means I have to change EVERY post to reflect the New Look.  (And then wash my hands ten times before touching the light switch in every room.  Twice.) 

During the renumbering process I discover that there are TWO Day 53s.  Written over Christmas week - my brain befuddled with mincemeat.  Obviously I have to correct things.  Which means that my seminal Day 100, which felt like a milestone at the time, had actually already happened the day before.  Day 99 (the actual Day 100) was short and quickly-written.  I was saving my word-juice for Day 100 (aka Day 101).  

I think a lot of important days creep in quietly.  Because it's often only in retrospect that you realise they were significant.  Few come draped in bunting and balloons. 

Here's to Day 100s masquerading as 99s.  Stealth specials.  Ninja dates. 

Day 128: Slugging It Out

The sky is blue and daffodils are busting out all over.  Spring is most definitely here.  I'd like to be out in it, but I am inside.  All pale and clammy, like a slug under a rock.  A slug with a backlog of work. 

Improved mouse

And a new laptop.  I'm getting to know its idiosyncracies.  I like the keyboard - the keys are weighted perfectly and click in a very satisfactory manner.  It sounds like I'm knitting very fast.  The mouse is an improvement on its predecessor - which required an ridiculous of pressure before it would respond.  Double-clicking burnt signficant calories.       

On the minus side, the sound quality is worse.  The start-up page (which I don't seem to be allowed to change) is horrible, informing me that it is 'delivering innovation'.  I may start using this as a euphemism for taking a shit.  The operating system is needy - constantly offering updates, and unnecessary bells and whistles that I don't want.  Like an exhaustingly over-attentive host.

Breakfast drink

I used to have a Greek Cypriot landlady who was big on hospitality.  I'd go round to pay my rent in the morning, and she'd ply me with everything in her cuboards.  Cake, biscuits, wine, fruit.  I'd string her along with 'no, thank yous' just to see how far she'd go.  (Normally as far as Metaxa - offered with the desperate grin of the knowingly-beaten.)  It was fun - we both knew it was a game.  It's less fun with my laptop - very earnest and humourless. 

I get the chance for a brief foray outside.  The printer runs out of ink - I make it to Rymans just in time.  I buy the right cartridge.  It loads without complaining (unusual). 

I suspect that if I'd been in this situation last week, I'd have either set fire to Rymans or broken the printer in my attempts to change the cartridge.  Am I transitioning from klutzdom to grace? 

Maybe next week I'll discover hidden dance skills.  Watch this space.