I am the grit in the gears, the missing bolt, I am the poker of sticks into spokes.
I like to know how things work, but sometimes when I take them apart and rebuild them, I have a few pieces left over.
I am a man, so I tend to leave reading the instructions until after it goes wrong.
And like all men I have a comprehensive mental map of the world and never need to ask directions.
I never get lost, only sometimes I'm late, or end up in the wrong place entirely.
It's what we do.
If it sounds too good to be true, it always is. I was looking for cheaper methods of flying across the atlantic, when I stumbled upon this, at Expat Mum's blog.
Not what I was looking for, but it made me laugh.
here in Britain, we have a number of competing budget airlines who offer what look like unfeasibly cheap deals. There's usually a catch.... Like I can get to Barcelona for twenty pounds. But how much is the ticket back?
The Corn Exchange, Leeds, was designed by Cuthbert Broderick, and completed in 1863.
On our travels, RDG and I have generally shared photographic duties, and it's hard for either of us to be sure whose is which. As a system, it works well, because we notice different things, and she sees things that I'm too familiar with to notice.
Some years ago, I found this poem in a book in a library, I was not a member of that library, I could not borrow the book, but I wanted to share that poem, so I clicked a furtive photograph. Alas, I forgot to write the name of the poet...
I can't give credit for these words. I wish I could. In fact, until I found the original picture, I'd even forgotten that I found it in a library, I'd thought I'd found it framed on the wall in a hospital.
If anybody knows who the poet is, I'd be grateful to hear. Google doesn't have a clue.
Back in the old days, before the miniaturisation of military ration sausages had been perfected, the Sausage Delivery Corps could be relied on to deliver sausages anywhere, no matter the terrain, no matter the battle raging. Here we see a medium pork with herbs being carried toward the front line. The Germans, known for their sausage technology, had nothing to match this mighty comestible.
Back to work, as nature hurls chaos at us. Trees falling, roads closed, power lines down, heroic rescues at sea. Malin Head weather station recorded hurricane force winds, trucks were blown over, and I'm knackered.
I was, of course, out nailing things down, roping and sheeting, dodging debris. Tuesday was the first day back, and my sleep patterns have not readjusted. In a free-will situation, I skew toward nocturnal habits. So, monday night saw me valiantly trying to sleep, in preparation for tuesday.
Tuesday itself was intense, lots of stuff to fix post-holiday, but also a howling gale full of little
sharp icy bits, which threaten to scour flesh from bone.
On getting home, I managed to fall asleep almost instantly to be woken with a call from our security guy, that a tree had dropped a big limb across the gates at one site... could I just...
So, back to work, to find my boss had lent the chainsaw to his pal, who is currently away somewhere. Oh lovely. Manual sawing then. Bow-saw, rope, land-rover... drag it clear, go back for more.
After an hour or so I'm really quite warmed up. When my boss finally picks up his phone...."Were you trying to call me?" HAH!
He's going to get the next call out. My phone will be off.
