It's a long way to...

Well, I didn't go to Tipperary, fine place that it is, but I did go to Scotland, 556 miles each way - up on Friday, back on Sunday, with a very alcoholic Saturday in between.

The occasion was an very old and dear friend's tenth wedding anniversary, together with his impending passage through the gates of hell which are one's 60th birthday.
I don't know for sure, of course, being considerably further away from my own particular rite of passage, but I have been told that if those parts that generally wear out happen to still be working after your 50th, your 60th is when they definitely say sayonara, turn to stone/mush, and stop working, possibly for ever.

But on a happier note, we had one hell of a ceilidh, complete with kilted dancers, Gay Gordons and 23 distinct brands of Scotch - many of which I felt it my duty to sample. I had intended making a list of them, and reviewing each one on this very page, giving marks out of ten, using phrases such as '...the subtle, smoky smell of peaty glens...' (whatever that means) but, alas, I had one too many (well maybe several), and all such good intentions fell by the wayside. Although, thankfully, I stayed upright.

Not only did we go to Scotland for the weekend, we left our as yet unfinished (still) kitchen in the capable hands of the kitchen fitters, hoping to come back to find that only the floor was still awaiting. Alas, it was not to be, but we are assured it will be finished this week, the floor will go down on Saturday and the final touch - those all important skirting boards to hide the crappy plasterwork at the bottom of the walls, will be done on Monday.
At this point, I feel compelled to point out that breath-holding in the face of rash promises can be damaging to your health.

As indeed can walking around on Liskeard's fine streets. Walking up from the town centre last week, we had to sidestep rather smartly around two large, imposing motorbikes (Suzaha, or Yamuki, or some such) which were manoeuvring around on the pavement trying to park in order to use the cash machine. When people made various comments and gestures suggesting that they were a cylinder short of a four-block, they grumbled a bit (in a very amateurish way, being relatively young) and drove 50 yards along the pavement, where they parked side by side, completely blocking it, 20 yards from the bank's carpark! 
OY - TOSSERS - NO-O-O-O-O-O!


And finally to ISPs - Internet Service Providers - or perhaps Inbred Self-abusing Pillocks. I'm sure we all have our favourite horror stories about them, so I'm not going to bore you with the afternoon I've just spent trying to work out what was wrong with my broadband after I replaced the cable connecting the router to the phone socket. I'm not going to repeat the effing and blinding I did when first I was connected then I wasn't. And I'm certainly not going to tell you what I called my ISP when I discovered that it was them that was having a problem not me. Oh no - why should I do all the work.

Instead, why don't you tell me about your problems. I just need to know someone else out there gets as annoyed, and as positively despairing, about modern technology as I do. So go on - tell me all about it, it'll make you feel better. (Well, it will make me feel better anyway!)

Bye for now, peeps!

PS For those of my readership who care about such things, the comment moderation has been removed, so feel free to say whatever you wish - I've upgraded it to an 'adult' blog in anticipation of lots of childish name-calling and swearing.