These are my walking boots.
They really were made for walking.
And I walk in them everyday, when I take the dog out.
They’re a bit heavy, but so VERY comfortable – now that I’ve broken them in.
But, I’m not the only one who loves my boots (or beewwts as they are known elsewhere).
Saber adores them because, when she sees me pick them up, she knows it’s THAT time.
These are my car keys.
Well, that black, oval fob thing on the left is.
Y’see, my car is one of those key-less ones. So long as the fob is somewhere within the car, I can press a button that says START/STOP on the dashboard and the engine will start.
I also have to press it to turn off the ignition at the end of the jouney.
All sounds quick and easy.
But, it’s a pain. It really is.
I’ve lost count of how many times I have got out of the car, only to realise the keys are still in there somewhere and as such, I can’t lock the doors.
When they are hanging conveniently from the steering column, it really is easy, because you turn the key anti-clockwise and pull it out of the lock. The key is then conveniently already in your hand.
But no, I have to pull up in my parking spot; press the START/STOP button to turn off the engine; get out of the car; try to lock the door without the keyfob; harumph to myself, crawl back in to the car; search through the various cubbyholes to see which one I might have put it in; run my hand along the back of the passenger seat in case it has got wedged in there; eventually find them on the floor, where they’d fallen when I’d had to brake sharply on the M40 thanks to that twat in the BMW; harumph again; back myself out of the car and then lock the door.
And this – apparently – is progress.
This is my Swiss Army knife.
Well, one of them.
This is the larger of the two that I own.
The smaller one doesn’t have quite so many appendages, but it practically lives on my person. I carry it everywhere and it is always handy to have. As it is always upon me though, I sometimes forget I have it… which is why it annoyingly got confiscated at Gatwick airport, a couple of years ago. Still, it made for a good gift the following Father’s Day.
Its bigger brother (featured above), lives on my desk and – again – is invaluable.
So much so, that a couple of years ago, I gave one to my Dad for Father’s Day, in the hope he would also find it as useful.
He did, and like me he carried it everywhere… which is why he had it confiscated at Heathrow Airport.
You can probably guess what he got for Father’s Day this year.
I get up at 5am most days.
Breakfast tends to be around 5.10 and usually consists of Sainsbury’s Fruit & Fibre or Muesli.
That sees me through to mid-morning.
By 10am I am getting peckish again and so I have a box of porage sitting on my desk, just for that time.
As seen previously, we have plenty of milk.
And a microwave.
I’ll also slice a banana into it… just for fun. And some blueberries, if there are any kicking about.
I have had my haircut, this morning.
No visit to the barber for me, though. No, I let the current Mrs Masher do her usual hatchet job on it. Fortunately, the ‘hatchet job’ is my preferred style.
In fact, I don’t think I have visited a barber’s shop since Mrs M and I first got together.
She’s not a trained hairstylist, or anything, but cutting hair is something that all women can do, I think.
To a degree.
Yes, on the odd occasion she has made a pig’s ear of it, but it’s never really bothered me.
Because it grows back.
All too quickly.
And nowadays, she pretty much has it off pat.
We have gone through many clippers over the years, but these are Mrs M’s currently preferred set.
They have lasted well and, after many uses, are still very sharp… as the blood currently running down from the tip of my left ear will testify.
The current Mrs Masher has a catering size bottle of Head & Shoulders that she and Amelia use for washing their hair.
Harry and I use a much smaller bottle – that lasts just as long.
Looking at them in the shower, this morning, I noticed that the one we boys use is emblazoned with the epithet: For Men.
Which is good.
Because we are.
But what is the difference between the two bottles, I wondered?
Well, checking through the list of unpronounceable chemicals on the back, the only difference I could see, was that the male version contains Limonene.
So, not only have I got soft and luxurious, dandruff-free hair, but it smells of lemons too.
Because I’m worth it.
This is my wristwatch.
Well, it’s one of my wristwatches. I have three.
This is my day-to-day work watch. It’s solar powered, so doesn’t need winding.
I also have a weekend watch. Same make, but slightly more expensive, waterproof and powered by kinetic energy.
The third is my dress watch, the one I wear to weddings and funerals. It too is solar powered, waterproof and it is synced via radio to DSF77, the time signal broadcast from Germany.
I don’t wear jewelry of any kind… apart from a wristwatch… which I wear all the time (pun not intended, but unavoidable).
Without one, I feel naked.
This is the calculator that I use at work. I took it out of my desk drawer specifically for this photo. And I wrote SHELLOIL on it, because it would have been infantile to have written BOOBS… and – contrary to popular opinion – I am a grown up.
I bought this calculator… actually, I didn’t – my parents bought me this calculator to do my college exams with. I remember going into Dixon’s with my mum, and I remember her wincing at the price when I picked out the one that I wanted.
But, I’ve always been one to look after things and so this calculator – though it’s somewhere around 38 years old – still works perfectly. And it even still has the original instruction manual, tucked into its imitation leather, plastic wallet.
It got me through my electronics exams.
It got me through my Radio Amateur’s exam.
It even got me through the mathematical questions they suddenly threw at me, at my job interview for the GPO/British Telecom.
OK, yes, I’ve had to change the batteries and clean up the PCB, but on the whole, mum, I think I got your money’s worth.
Today was the day of the Montreal Grand Prix.
A circuit where Lewis Hamilton won his first race and one where he usually excels.
A track where Jenson Button won what was – IMHO – one of the best races of the modern era, in 2011.
I became interested in Formula 1 and it’s British drivers, when the young and prodigious LH started showing what he was capable of.
And when JB joined him at McLaren, it was, for me, the dream team and I’ve been a fan ever since.
But I’m not that big a fan that I want to dish out my hard-earned to Rupert bloody Murdoch.
So, for the races that are not available on terrestrial television, I watch them on German satellite channel RTL. The dish sits in the garden, bolted to a paving slab and 5 mins before the race starts, I just feed the cable in through an open window and into the receiver box which then feeds the telly using an old-fashioned SCART lead.
I’ve been watching it like this for the past four or five years. Yes, there are adverts to put up with – annoying German ones, at that – but this arrangement only cost me a one-off payment of just forty quid. If I’d paid SKY for their F1 channel, I would have paid out well over a thousand pounds, by now.
For that sort of saving, I can put up with a few adverts 🙂
I mentioned, last week, about how I do the weekly food shop on a Saturday.
Well, as personal recompense for doing this, first of all, I visit the in-store café, where I will spend 20 minutes relaxing with a cup of tea and a toasted teacake.
I know: very civilised.
It prepares me for facing the hoards of dozy, inconsiderate shoppers, as they slowly drag themselves round, getting in my way and leaving their trolley wherever it will cause me the most grief.
But, there is something that really annoys me about Sainsbury’s Café and their delicious toasted teacake.
It’s the butter.
Nothing wrong with. It’s a good quality butter.
But, when they give it to you, it has come straight from the fridge.
It’s very, very cold.
As such, it won’t spread on the teacake, without ripping it to shreds. I have to put ‘chunks’ of butter on and then wait for it to melt, by which time my toasted teacake isn’t so toasty.
It’s a terrible, terrible thing.
Who’d want to live my life, eh?