slacker

Blog slackness sets in and while I could use you-know-what as an excuse I think I'll not. I've simply been a slacker, content to sit on my arse, stare at web pages I've no interest in or television I have even less interest in rather than get to my diary. Whether this will act as the kick in the arse I need or not remains to be seen.

So, where to begin. Well I could begin at Heathrow airport, where, in Terminal 1, as far as I can tell (or as far as I could find) there are no water fountains. Plenty of vending machines, but no water fountains. Thanks for that British Airport Authorities, appreciate your efforts in helping me prepare for the big flight by taking what little remaining money I have from me. But as the Heathrow Express, good though it is, is the most expensive stretch of railway in the world and as you need to take out a mortgage to pay the car park fees, I really should not be surprised...

Aussie 'ip 'op ahoy! Back in Blighty Sal and I stayed with Ruth and her landlady Kate. I forgot to get something for Kate as a thank you so today went to the local Virgin Megastore and bought the greatest hits album The Murmur Years, by Something for Kate. Geddit? Cool, huh? I have, of course, iTunesed (what a verb!) a copy for myself. Anyway, en route to the checkout I perused the kick out bin where I found the album "Looking for Andrew Bradley" by Quro. Turns out to be an Aussie Hip Hop outfit that seems to comprise of MC Andrew Bradley. Sort of like Guru for the great southern land, S'ok. I also picked up Damien Rice's second full album, 9. Also iTuned it and mentioned it here to see if Sal is reading...if she don't pick me up on it I'll give it to her for her birthday. H-e-l-l-o? You there Sal? hehe!

Well she spotted that while I was watching Top Gear (bang up to date Aussie TV; UK PM was still Tony Blair. Best Aussie TV continues to be three year old UK tele...) so I guess I'll have to find her something else.

What else? Well, as usual I am wracked by doubts over my running ability after completing not-enough-miles in far-too-long this weekend as my last long hit out before The Six Foot Track, now less than three weeks away. Ah well, fuck it. My hat's in the ring, I'm in the second wave, behind th whippets but in front of the plodders. We shall see.

Mike, Sal's dad and my father in law called this evening. He knows today is funeral day and wanted to let me know that he and Maureen, mum-in-law, are thinking of me and dad. Very touching. I told them to have a scotch; not a good one, but something like a Bells, and they assured me they would. I polished off half a bottle of wine and a bit of very bad port; not in his honour, because, well, fuck it, I fancied a loosener.

Rewind to before I took the old man into the hospice and he pointed out where a half empty bottle of Bells was hidden in his wardrobe. Not without booze issues, though not all his own, he said a couple of times that he'd like to have a scotch with me because, well, he was fucked anyway, what harm could it do? Might even do him some good. I either never got or never took the chance to ask the medical bods what they thought before he nodded off for the last time. Somehow I don't think he'd hold it against me.

For fear of finding myself in the middle of Irish Water Spaniel WW3 I shall keep this brief and ask the potential combatants, breeders on each side of the nutless debate and occasional blog readers, to duke it out with each other and leave me, a mere pet owner, unscathed on the sidelines. Rowlf has joined Rumpole in the massed ranks of the nutless. I can report this has done nothing to alter his utterly bonkers nature or his bounciness. He's great. He just ain't got his bollocks. Real shame I didn't get video of him as he came off the anesthetic. He was very sideways and it was very funny. Slept it off and was back to normal straight away.

Right, bed time.