No Use Paying Over Spilt Milk

October 3, 2015

I very nearly got four pints of milk for nothing today. In real terms that’s a saving of one hundred pence on our weekly shop.

And when I say I very nearly got four pints of milk, I mean that not only was I offered them but there was also just less than four pints.

I know that not because of some new Rainman-esque ability to estimate volune bourne of phlegm and lemsip but because the bags of shopping being delivered were swimming in the remainder.

The delivery driver was really good, offering me some leaky milk for nothing. And part of me was screaming out to take it. The other part was having a discussion with the screaming bit about not knowing where the leak was which would lead to a milk-filked fridge.

Not to mention that a bottle of milk with a hole in is a lot less, well, sealed that a bottle of milk with no hole in. Surely my milk would go off quicker, as the elements flooded in through the hole in the bottle.

It is kind of old school though, isn’t it, a perforated milk bottle. It’s a little bit blue tits pecking at your silver top. But when you figure it was probably done by some burly packer chucking the milk around and not a cute garden bird it does loose some of the charm.

I only put milk on the shopping as a kind of filler – we don’t need it. But it’s nice to have it. A spot of cereal. A cup of tea. All things that would benefit from milk. But we’ve done without milk for a few weeks. What’s one more week?

I’m gonna have to go to Tesco’s. I really want milk.

Go Slower Stripes

October 2, 2015

There’s a part of me, let’s call it the cynical part, that can’t help thinking painting a glow in the dark stripe on a horse is going to lead to more accidents rather than fewer.

If you’re driving across Dartmoor and can’t manage to see a horse in the first place – many of which carry a healthy dose of white in their colouring – then seeing a glowing stripe in the distance is probably not going to happen either.

And then there are the people who see the stripe and freak out that something mysterious is chasing them through the moors and actually speed up, ploughing into who knows what in their pursuit of freedom.

The idea came from a woman who saw a similar thing in a Nordic country, where they would paint the antlers of reindeer with luminous paint. She came home with that idea and carried it over to the Dartmoor ponies, not letting the fact that they don’t have antlers put her off. Instead, a stripe of paint is put along the sides of the animal and, in the future, reflective beads will be added.

What if the pony is head-on to traffic? Maybe you should paint the ears or something. Maybe go with a Day Of The Dead motiff on the face? Paint them to look like speed cameras?

And there’s always the chance the ponies will realise how daft they look and actively run out into traffic to try and end it all…


October 1, 2015

I’ve felt like crap all day today.

I’ve been in bed more-or-less since I got home from work.

I’m only writing this while I wait for the right time to take some more tablets.

Try me again tomorrow.


September 30, 2015

When I woke up this morning, I had the blissful joy of thinking that I didn’t even have to leave the house today. I had everything I could possibly want for lunch, a Graze box on its way for nibbles and the lure of Tesco’s and something crap to eat was far out of my mind.

About two hours later I realised that I had no bus fare for tomorrow and, rather than leave the house earlier than needed to get some cash in the morning, I should stroll on to the cash machine, get some money and come home.

Which is how I came to find myself in Gregg’s purchasing a cheese and bacon wrap. £1.55 for a bit of folded over pastry, some cheese and a pot luck piece of bacon – it may be thick, thin, fatty, streaky, lean. It’s really nice if you don’t stop to think about it too much, or let your mouth register the texture of the bacon for too long.

Anyway, while I was getting that a man to my left was buying his lunch by card. The baked goods disemination operative had, for some reason, taken his card off him and was waving it round in front of the contactless paypoint.

For a long time.

“I don’t think we can accept this,” she said. “Can we accept this?” she asked of one of her colleagues. “It doesn’t work on the contactless, I don’t know if we can accept this. Can we accept this? I’m sorry, love, we can’t accept this. It’s not contactless.”

Her colleague came over.”No, that’s not contactless…”

And then the man, who had been watching this unfold before him, who had had his debit card taken off him by the baked goods disemination operative, just went “I know…”

“Do you know your PIN?” she asks, in a way that implies if he did she’d put his name forward for burning at the stake as some kind of witch. “If you know your PIN you can pay by card…”

“I know…”

Web Of Fate

September 29, 2015

There’s been something hard at work

Industrious through the night

It’s toiled and slaved for hours on end

To make this structure right.

Meanwhile, a creature stirs

Risen from its slumber

From bed into the bathroom

A bleary-eyed, slow-footed lumber.

These two are joined by fate

Soon their paths will cross

One will suffer psychologically

The other will feel a loss.

The creature now is washed and dressed

Leaving the habitat

With bag on back and shoes on feet

Having said farewell to the cat.

The other though is motionless

Just waiting, raring to go

But a terrible thing will happen soon

And both will feel the woe.

For the creature fresh from slumber

And the one who’s worked so long

Are occupying the same space-time

And that, my friends, is wrong.

So as the web sticks to the face

Of the creature not long woken

The spider can feel the vibrations of

The rude word that is spoken.

And while the spider’s lost his home

And source of food to boot

It still feels like there’s web on me

As round my face I root.

Ode To A Super Moon

September 28, 2015

Standing in the cold and dark

Staring at the moon

To anyone who was looking on

Quite literally a loon.

But it was a blood moon

And a Super Moon as well

If you like your portents of doom

This one’s straight from Hell.

Standing in the garden

In jimjams and a coat

I wondered what would happen

Would the Doomsday Preppers gloat?

Because as portents of doom may go

This one’s pretty lame

It’s essentially a shadow

Even Groundhog Day’s the same.

And as the reddish hue took hold

I waited for the screams

Of people snatched by demons

Reality tearing at the seams.

But none of that stuff happened

While the moon was sort of red

And it was cold out in the garden

So I went back to bed.

Dear Casualty

September 27, 2015

Dear Casualty,

You’ve been going for thirty years. Thirty long years of having to come up with elaborate, yet subtle, set-ups for injuries which may result in hospitalisation. And not just straight-forward ones like, ooo I don’t know, the guy who looked into the nozzle of a plastic extruder and ended up with hot, melty plastic in his eye to Charlie’s own will-he-won’t-he encounter with a gunman only for him to come through unscathed and have a heart attack on the crapper.

Thirty years calls for a lot of ideas, so I thought I’d submit one to ease your burden.

Our hero, a good-looking, young, dashing fellow is busy doing domestic chores. What could happen to him? He doesn’t have a dishwasher so no danger of him falling onto improperly placed knives or anything like that. But it looks like he’s about to take several glass  jars out to the shed to put in the recycling bucket.

Oh my, glass. How will this end? Particularly when you look at how precariously balanced the jars are. Oh the viewers will be salivating at the thought of this obvious catastrophe.

Our hero makes his way outside, across the patio, and the jars wobble and sway. Literally centimetres away from his destination the jar falls…

You’d cut to another scene here. Maybe a crappy bit about a doctor with a problem or a crush on someone or an addiction or some other nonsense. But I will just continue…

The jar falls. A seemingly impossible length of time passes in which you’re left wondering what could happen.

The jar lands.

In a plastic tub containing garden rubbish, which cushions the fall and leaves the jar in one piece.

But it’s far from over.

The garden waste consists of cuttings. From a rose bush. Sharp thorns, blood loss – everything your audience wants.

And when our hero reaches in for the jar he stabs himself on a thorn. Which causes hin to jerk his hand back. His hand which is holding the jar.

This sudden movement is too much for the grip  twixt hand and jar, and they separate. The jar spins through the air, before shattering onto the patio sending tiny shards of glass everywhere.

A sea of glass fragments between our hero and the house. Like that bit in Die Hard where they know Bruce Willis has no shoes on so they shoot all the windows out.

In fact, exactly like that as I neglected to mention our hero is not wearing any footwear at all.

Over to you, Casualty people, you’ve been doing this for thirty years. I can’t spoon-feed it to you!


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