We're going to the zoo, zoo, zoo

After what seems like a geological ian spent indoors, we decided it was time for a family day out, and where better than to spend it than at the zoo, where animal convicts earn their keep by parading around in front of us. For funsies.

So off we went to Bristle zoo, and had a very enjoyable few hours showing my little boy traditional fauna, including the lions, or "Rahs!" as he calls them. A 'rah' also refers to a tiger, a red panda and, worryingly, socks. Mind you, he calls crocodiles "Neighs" so I'm not expecting much of a zoological future for him.

One thing he did seem to enjoy was the aquarium, and it was fun to point out the fish, of various hue and girth, which he dutifully pointed at all excitedly. One area was a tunnel through which you can walk under the aquarium and look up at the fish, in this manner:
So it was a good teaching opportunity for him, exposing him to some of the denizens of the deep(ish) waters of our planet. It also happened to be glass-cleaning day at the aquarium, and obviously this was far more exciting to little kids than boring animals, especially when the silhouette of one of nature's top predators came gliding over the walkway:

Lots of 'oohs' and 'ahhs' and ignored fish ensued, so in order to continue the animal exposure, we went off to be insulted by lemurs.

A little later on, we came across the river otters, and obviously he was far more interested in the traditional otter food of . . .
. . . white rat lobbed over the fence. Traditional otter fare, that one.

I'm thinking of taking him to a dedicated aquarium next, where divers get eaten if they spend to long with their algae scrapers.

Tis the seasoning . . .

Well, xmas has occurred, and thanks to our pagan heritage we still drag a bush in and have a big old nosh-up smack bang in the middle of winter. I may not be religious or a traditionalist but, if it involves booze, grub and a heaving sackful of goodies, then you can paint me yellow and refer to me as High Priestess Woo-Woo the Oblique for all I care.

And the food was luvverly. We started off with something that was once de rigeur for any stylish household, but lost favour and went the way of chicken-in-a-basket as edible fashions deemed it a tad 1970s; only prawn cocktail! I even managed to get red glass bowls which would've been right at home on the set of Abigails Party. Look at 'em:

You can't tell me your mouth isn't watering at the sight of de-exoskeletonned crustaceans in ketchup and mayonnaise.

The other thing I discovered was cranberry sauce, the staple condiment for turkey in every civilised country. Now, obviously, I know what cranberry sauce is, as it comes in a jar and gets heated up every year. But no! Not this year. I was shown the delights of making it myself, in 10 minutes, from real cranberries. They go from this:


To this:And it tasted fantastic. For a start, it doesn't taste too much of cranberries, which are absolutely disgusting and have been know to turn a man's face completely inside-out with their tartness. A load of sugar, wine and some other niceties and - Violin! - you have deliciousness in a pan.

It's one of those food groups that, despite being up there with ambrosia in terms of tastiness, you only eat at a certain time of the year. Llike Advocat. And Creme de Menthe.

After the consumption of more calories than you might find in a deep-fried deepfryer, I now weigh 73 stone, so it's off for a run in the morning for me. I'll just have this last ferrero rocher . . .

That good old good feeling.

After a brief hiatus from this blog where reality stepped in and rudely interrupted my internet time, I went for a walk yesterday in order to clear my head, recharge my lungs and re-vim my vigour.

It's cold here at the moment, although we haven't had any snow since 1978 because of cow farts and 4x4s, but after a small amount of walking (barely a mile from my house), the scene that greeted me was lovely. So lovely in fact, I took out my phone and used it for its primary purpose. Taking photos. Occasionally, I talk to people on it, but that's just incidental:
Obviously, photograms don't do justice to the real world (except for porn, where they make sex look a bit better), but here, the cold snap of the air, the cloudy breathing from cattle, the skeletal trees looking like roots rather than anything that might possibly photosynthesize, all combined to make me feel . . . good.

And believe me, it's been a few days since I felt that way, which makes it extra special.

Wherever you are, I hope your locality offers a little bit of good.

D'oh, a door, a feeble door!

Money isn't everything, but it certainly helps keep the wolves from the door. Unless they are real wolves and you haven't got a door. Happily, I have a door, and this is a good thing even though wolves are typically scarce in this region, ever since the myxomatisis outbreak of '56.

This is my door:

Nice eh? It's made of all plastic and glass that is, for some reason, better than a great slab of wood with a knob on it. As I'm no door expert I shall bow to received wisdom and refrain from replacing it with an oaky edifice, although the only advantage I can see is the transluceny issue. Not good in oak doors.

However, it has been laid low recently when it failed to lock, and as some wolves are noted for their tenacity and door-opening abilities (as seen on TVs 'Animals Do The Funniest Things, Right Before They Invade Your House And Eat Your Family'), I deemed it necessary to consult a locksmith and PVC door expert.

He soon found the problem, and did a quick, albeit temporary,repair. It would seem the whole inner bit needs replacing because this bit is knackered:



In case you're wondering, it's the bit on the left. The red paperclip is for scale, and not commonly found in the better sort of door. I'm reckoning about half a centimetre long, by the looks of things. I am cheerily informed that the whole bit can be replaced as soon as a new inner part is ordered.

"Fair enough" says I. "Get the part at once, Mr Locksmith and PVC Door Expert. And can you tell me, just for funsies like, how much the whole shebang will be?"
"Of course." replies Mr Locksmith and PVC door expert, "One hundred and eighty-five pounds and sixty-five pee, including VAT."
"Hmmfeeeeee?!" I expectorated, and felt a clammy, tight feeling near my wallet.

And the annoying thing is, he's not ripping me off. Research has since confirmed that this is how much it is to repair my door. I could do it myself for a bit less, but this would eventually be more expensive when Mr LaPVCDE has to come round to repair my amateurish fumblings, possibly while paramedics are trying to work out how to extricate me from the frame.

I wonder how much a bloody great slab of oak is?

None Shall Pass.

Whilst wandering wistfully within welshest Wales one wednesday, our path was blocked by two local and mean looking inhabitants. They were quite neatly turned out, attired in similar accoutrements and sporting the latest in thermal protection, perfectly suited to the chilly environs of which they were so familiar.

It made me stop and think. Mainly because I'd just walked uphill for a mile and any excuse to stop was welcome, even if it was to think, but I did anyway. What might they want? Were they hostile? They looked indifferent, but that might have been the carefully cultivated nonchalnace adopted by the professional (and competent) thug.

I suddenly realised they were assessing me to see if they recognised me, to see if I was a threat. Their world was probably relatively small, insular and dangerous, with the same few people occupying the same few roles in society. Bosses and underlings, suppliers and users, all familiar with each other and all identifiable. Even the enemies, the predators and the traitors, would probably be recognised by these two, so it was imperative in their view that they be vigilant, and causing some discomfort to innocent visitors a small price to pay.

After a moment, they moved aside to let us pass, with not even a cold nod of acquittal. We avoided eye contact and went on our way.

In a moment of clarity however, I understood they were checking me out to see if I was a grass.

Balance this!

A balanced diet consists of, according to our Dept o' Health, fruit and vegetables; bread, other cereals and potatoes; meat, fish and alternatives; some dairy, fat and sugar. They haven't mentioned brown sauce, which I'm sure is simply an oversight, but I get the impression this is a fairly accurate piece of advice.

I don't require the ignorant witterings of self-appointed nutritional therapists with worthless diplomas and no scientific knowledge whatsoever to tell me what's good for me, or what's bad for me, or what's a new miracle food because it's a berry, and it's purple, and the Aztecs used it as a cure for IBS. As a contemporary western male with an education and the ability to have nuggets of wisdom drawn to my very fingertips by way of internet tubes, I am aware of the dangers of not eating variety, and the benefits of ensuring I eat a balanced diet.

It's common kowledge. Common sense even.

However, I'm also a typical bloke, which is why my dinner today consisted of this:

MANFOOD! Guh. Guh. Guh.

Obviously, I heated it up a bit first.

And I stuck one slab of meat between two pieces of bread, so that varied things up a bit. Oh, and I had Barbadosian Hot Sauce on it, which is not only a separate foodstuff, but practically a different type of matter to that usually found in the universe.

Now if that's not varied, I don't know what is.

What to do . . . what to do?

Cursed with an easily distracted mind, I was staring at our house rabbit t'other day when it occurred to me that what he really, really needed was for his ears to be threaded through a toilet roll tube.

So I did:
Apparently, this is a better thing to do that place Jaffa cakes on my new-born son's eyes so he looked like Elton John wearing shades.

I'm not posting that one, cos the missus told me not to.

Shame.