A do-er whines

You could hear the kangol machine from northern France. That nice lady decorator was determined to prove for certain that there was an original inglenook fireplace behind the hideous new brick build surrounding our 17th century fireplace in Arundel. There was only one way to find out, a method that looms large in her operating system, smash it to pieces and take a look.

It is precisely this “hands on” attitude that she uses to get to the root of the problem that is so scary, but I guess it eradicates doubt. She had employed a chap called John Malcomson, a builder, a soon to be Currencies Direct customer and a renegade from Spain with a perfect upper class English accent and no hair whom we had met in the pub next door recently. He is the owner of the loudest brick dismantling machinery known to man, and had it set at “head bang” for most of the morning. Of course, as we are embarked on a non drinking phase which had lasted hitherto for over 2 days and every intention of remaining alcohol free we were possibly less able to deal with the dust the rubble and the noise, which was so excruciating that we were forced to leave the house, and so our resolve to avoid a drink suffered an early blow.

I contend that it was not my idea without making any comment as to whether I thought it was a good idea or not. All I know is that we ended up at The Black Rabbit and had a passable meal and a little too much wine and I blame that nice lady decorator.

Before deciding on lunch out, in order to escape and avoid the cacophony, that nice lady decorator had taken to her favourite medicine; Retail therapy. There are very few things that set her pulses racing more than this. Even my Adonis like figure, semi clothed and glistening with oil surprisingly has less effect. So even after I had put the finishing touches to a bath of fake tan with a gallon of top grade 20/50, she preferred the idea of shopping. I shall never understand women.

We happened upon a shop called “Junk and Disorderly” which I thought could have summed up several of my friends rather nicely, where she discovered the sign which I feature as my picture today.  Why she feels this is funny is beyond me. I say again, I will never understand women.

A sign of the times?

This a very silly sign with no humourous merit. The very idea that this blog could be accused of whining is ridiculous. I have never whined about anything in the past and it is really cruel to suggest that I do so in this daily column. I could go on whining about it but I think I have overdone the joke now.

With sprog 1 arriving home from college to be fed, we popped up to The Eagle in Arundel where live music is the feature on a Wednesday but I think we need the Trades Description Act to be invoked. Live music needs somebody to be alive and there when performing and although she was there I am not certain the singer even had a pulse. I have seen amoeba more animated.

So today has started bright and sunny but the metaphorical clouds are already looming. I can see dozens of bags of rubble and another big pile lying in the yard which I am certain will need moving today as the fireplace destruction project is only half done. You will know that I have already tried the “shrapnel” defence (the spurious claim that a piece of shrapnel moves around my body rendering me incapable of physical hard work) so it looks like a morning amid the rubble for me.

Chris France