Category: Rants

Dvorak

Occasionally, as I have mentioned here before, I will get a tune stuck in my head.  An earworm, as some people call it.

This has happened again.

For a whole week – and even as I type – I have had Antonin Dvorak’s 9th Symphony stuck between my ears.

Not ALL of it, of course, because it’s a bit lengthy, but bits of it.

Bits out of ALL 4 movements.

Now, I’m not averse to a bit of Dvorak and I’m sure that many would agree that his ninth symphony is well worth listening to.

But, it’s been a week now, so it is starting to grate a little.

And it doesn’t help that when my brain decides that it wants to listen to the 2nd movement, it also puts on a strong Yorkshire accent and adds the words “Eee, he were a great baker, our Grandad”.

Jean Genie

As both of you know, I’ve long been a trendsetter when it comes to fashion.

Back in the eighties, my “Frankie’s Gone To Cricklewood” t-shirt was the talk of the canteen at work and my reputation for only wearing underwear from Bloomingdale’s has become the stuff of folklore.

And when plum-coloured, velvet frock-coats with four-inch lapels and 15-denier Harris tweed cuffs come back into fashion…

However, one fashion that I have never followed is that of denim jeans.

I wear denim jeans – of course – but I’m really not bothered about what make they are.

In fact, the pair of jeans that I normally grab out of the wardrobe, are Sainsbury’s own brand, that I bought in an emergency in Torquay, for six quid a few years ago.  I have worn them many times and not had one single person comment that they look cheap or crap.

Levi Jeans are the premium brand, of course, and lots of youngsters throw their hard-earned cash that way. At eighty-five quid a pair though, I’m sure they can’t afford to buy too many pairs.

The ones that astound me though, are the Levis with buttons on the fly rather than a zip. What’s that backward step all about? Because, from what I’ve seen, to have a wee, you have to undo your belt and waist button first, in order to undo the fly buttons. I’ve stood next to many a chap at the urinal, who has had to stand legs akimbo whilst taking a pee, in order to stop his trousers from falling to the floor. Indeed, only a couple of hours ago, whilst visiting the toilet at the cinema (took the kids to see Incredibles 2), I turned round to see a chap standing at the urinal, with his Levi jeans around his ankles. Then, as I washed my hands, I watched in fascination as he pulled his trousers up and went through all the rigmarole of doing up the fiddly buttons. Then – having got his trousers done up again – he wiggled them down, such that three to four-inches of his underpants were showing.

He walked out with a confident swagger… although, with his crotch around his knees, it looked more like a waddle and it left me thinking that fashion was so much more sensible back in the day, wasn’t it?

Now, where did I put that RELAX tee-shirt…

 

Clean sweep

This is the broom that I use for sweeping up in the garden.

At least, it was until the dog got hold of it.

Ten years I have owned that broom.

Now look at it!

 

 

Alicia

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.

First World problem

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?

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