Friday, 31 January 2014

Boiling Potatoes Burn Roof

Last nacht I had a big bowl of roast pots, squash, parsnips and beets (having decided that a clear out of the lower alimentary was probably in order).  So, all went well except for the pots which retained gallons more heat than the other vegetables and really burned the old roof.

So, I looked up potato propertied on Google and, so far so good, I got pointed in the direction of some science website called Quara(?).  Well, before it would let me enter the site a huge screen popped up and demanded I type in my email address and password for Google, so I thought: 'I should cocoa,' cos I'm not as green as I'm cabbage looking.

So, I closed the screen and dear old Peter Norton (the anti virus software) told me that he had bravely halted a dangerous hack of my system.  But I thought, I think not, Norton; after all I was the one who didn't go any further.  Honestly, when your own software tries to steal your thunder...

But I'm meandering around the tubers: guess what I found out about potatoes?  They use them in cavity wall insulation!

I mentioned this to Man Friday and he said: 'Don't you get any mental ideas, missus.'  He was referring to the fact that we've had terrible condensation this year and have toyed with air bricks and plasticky paint and polystyrene tiles, but finally hit upon the only efficacious and free solution - take the door off the offending closet.  True, everyone can see all our old rubbish, but it is better than mushrooms.

So when I mentioned the insulating properties of potatoes, M.F. thought I was reading up on some crackers idea in re tuberising the closet.

Sorry, don't know what I'm blethering on about in this blog - it all made sense when I started.

Oh, George down the road had a stroke poor old bugger.  He'd been on high blood pressure medicine for a hundred years but as he got older, his blood pressure normalised itself (don't ask me how) and so the medicine was too strong, and that's why he went all potty the other year and started crying over the dropped sausage (see previous blog).  So, he came orf the BP medicine and we all went 'phew' cos everyone thought it was the old dementia.  However, seems like praps he could've done with a bit of the medicine cos he then had a stroke.

He is getting better tho' (if a bit crab-like in the walking department) but gets very miffed if you get him on the subject of blood pressure.

Thursday, 30 January 2014

I'm not dead...I have a floating shard

Am so not dead! 

What happened was, I took up poker (at which I am really rather rubbish) and, next thing you know, a year had gone past.

Then... I busticated my arm whilst making a heroic save of my good self and landed awkwardly on the sofa (natch, on the only hard bit).  It took aeons to get an injection in the old appendage (see 'aeons' viz a viz 'NHS' equals 7 months, I kid you not!).

The syringe (horse sized and needle like a lance, am so not kidding) was filled with steroids and I don't care what the anti-doping councils of the world say, but that stuff is mustard!

All the doctors reckon I mungelated a bit of bone off one of my shoulder bones (connected to the arm bone) and have, what is known as in physician circles as 'a floating shard'.

So, am orf to have to have an X-Ray next week.  However, in meantimes, I have been appointed a visiting physiotherapist called Jolly Hockey Sticks (she's really called something like Caroline Japp) but she's one of those people that you don't see much of anymore: foreboding product of a girl's boarding school.

Get this one:  Jolly Hockeys came around the other week and Man Friday and self completely forgot she was coming.  So, when she came back today she did all her usual agonising man-handling and then she said: 'Oh ho! Where were you two blighters last week then?'

And we did some grovelling and mondo sorries et cetera and guess what she said: 'You smell, you two, you really do.'

When she said that I nearly had a fit from laughing, I hurt all my cheeks.

She is about six feet tall and very sturdily built, with very sensible clothings and she says: 'Ho!' all the time.  I totally love her!

Man Friday hates her.  But she is really rather sexist i.e. Man Friday was doing the washing-up whilst she was trying to wrench my arm out of its socket and she cocked her head at poor old M.F. and said to me: 'You've got him well trained, ho!'  And Man Friday's eyebrows nearly disappeared over the top of his head.  I did some screaming in agony to distract us from the unpleasantness and Jolly Hockeys said to me: 'I say, you really are a baby!'

Jolly Hocksticks is so terrible that I adore her and think she should be preserved: she is obvious of a limited edition.

Man Friday thinks she should be put out of his misery.

We are having roasted beetroot and butternut squash for tea - huzzah!