This weekend I collapsed on the faux fur rug after tromping up and over Hergest Ridge on the Offa’s Dyke path. The rugby was on, i’d just taken time to light the fire and like my Dad I lay down flat on my back on the floor and dozed while the whistles blew, the crowd cheered and the fire crackled. These logs are vicious, and the dry spell we’ve had has dried them out nicely, but I still need a chopping log, the lack of which does tend to hinder the chopping process. Placing the logs on the outside table and then smashing the hatchet into the log isn’t going to strengthen the table, and its the only one we’ve got. Further battering of the aging furniture will only serve to force my hand into making another, which is more of a summer project as i’m sure you’ll understand, it’ll have to joint the list… Buy speedboat, landrover, walk the Annapurna Base Camp, etc finally down to make new outside table, its last at this moment but i’m sure I can think of something else to replace it, anyway the old table isn’t ruined yet.

Mrs T and myself walked overt the top of the Herbiest Ridge on Saturday from Kington to Gladestry, it was an 8 mile round walk with lunch at the pub in Gladestry, or so I assumed. Sadly and irritatingly, the landlady was off doing something, up on the hill, fuck knows what, and so we had to make do with prawn cocktail crisps, Wotsits, cider and a couple of Ludlow ales. There’s a lot worse than this but there is also many things better than having walked a while to a destination, in this case the pub, and finding out that its beyond them to chuck a piece of cheese in-between a couple of slices of bread, we didn’t even ask for tomatoes although I suspect the shortage isn’t as acute in Wales as it is in Worcester. We sat in the stone cold boozer, forced into a chilly corner where the fire could not radiate its heat and having not taken our jackets off felt thoroughly miserable over the lack of lunch. I had a Ploughmans with Stilton last time, was squarely mocked for it, but bloody well enjoyed it, what can I say, i’m off the scale me.

There was no one out really and the walk passed without incident aside from a crow shitting on my shoulder as I called up to them from underneath, its not good luck,  I didn’t win the lottery or find £20 under the bed, although Mrs T did on Sunday so maybe I should let something bigger have a dump on my shoulder.

 

The second time this weekend I found myself absorbed face first into the sofa was at about 3am Monday morning, Mrs T came down and I was immobile, covered in fluff and dribble, and surrounded by empty wheat crunchy packets. What the hell had happened I hear you ask. In brief, I went to watch young Monister play Rugby, ponce again the young chap wasnt worried about tackling the biggest bloke on the pitch and I think go the better of their number 1, enough to make him go my son, in a kind of revenge. Its Rugby and so everyone is slightly more refined, although some of the language being banded around by 14 and 15 years olds was pretty ropey, “Bit o’ Blue” We lost as far as the scores went but won as far as moral victories go, scoring 2 tries against the run of play in the final 10 minutes or so, never giving up. Theres a deep seam of character in this team.

Making it home and getting the fire lit is a necessary action to complete the Sunday  afternoon, avoid the cleaning by doing the cooking, thats my mantra, and I’m sure Mrs T knows i’m a lazy sap, but these last 4 weeks have knocked me about a bit heath wise and hearing the suggestion from a very good friend that I might just be old, really hit the spot, and has now manifested itself as a permanent doubt. Maybe I am old, and a couple of weeks of forgetfulness and mis reading things has me temporarily spooked, we’ll see how this develops. So when L (to protect his anonymity) sent me a text asking if I space for some chocolate cake, after dinner, I jumped at the opportunity. He was going to deliver, we’ed have a beer or two and a chat. What actually happened was L asked if I wanted some space cake, not if I had space for some cake. These two statements hold very different meanings and similarly different results, a small slither of space cake was what compelled me to try and bury into the sofa, or the sofa to try and swallow me, on balance it was probably a bit of both. So when Mrs T came down to fish me out she was probably struck by the lack of   couthness as to how she found me, but not entirely surprised.

Its been about 27 years since I was last stoned I think and the one thing I remember about being caned (stoned) is how confusing and hard it was to try to organise the charging of my electric car having just woke up. Needless to say it didn’t work and so I spent the day floating between charging stations in Worcester and Hereford, with a fuzzy fuzzy head.

Night all