Daft Old Duffer returns. Guest opinion articles do not necessarily reflect the views of the publication. Ed
Despite my general relapse into armchair dozing in the afternoon mode, I still hanker after my wandering about days.
So the announcement of the overnight coaches between London and Glasgow caused a stir in my sluggish innards. Fifteen quid for a bed, jim-jams and even a toothbrush thrown in – that’s an offer I can’t refuse, I thought.
But then reality kicked in. Overnight sleepers are no use to me because I am a night time pee-er.
Nocturnal bladder
During the day – fine. I can go about my business with nary a consideration of where the nearest loo might or might not be. In fact I can boast plumbing of which a twenty year old would not be ashamed.
But at night – oh dear. An unending routine of, wake up, out of bed and stumble to the lav, return to bed and instant sleep, Then, again, wake up, out of bed etc., etc.
So an eight hour sleep period for me would equate to a series of disturbances for those trying to sleep all around me.
And I ain’t got the brass neck for that.
Had my money’s worth from the NHS
I know I could get it fixed. But it’s not essential, and I think I’ve already had more than my fair share of the NHS, what with my quadruple by-pass, my various stays in hospital, and my various broken limbs, courtesy of my biking days.
Anyway, it doesn’t bother me now I’ve gotten used to it. I’m just glad I don’t share my bed with some unfortunate lady. She’d surely end by topping me.
Rule Britannia
I was doing a bit of casual shopping. I spotted a rhubarb tart and decided to treat myself. But at the check-out the assistant noticed it was one day past its sell by date.
“It doesn’t matter,” I said. “It’s clearly all right.” (It was in a box with a transparent top)
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m not allowed to sell it once it’s past its expiry date.”
A bit cheekily I said, “Well then, as it’s going to be dumped, are you allowed to give it away?”
“No,” she said “If it was up to me I would, but ….”
So I left sans treat, and said treat was dumped.
I rather like to think the assistant, or one of her colleagues, rescued the discarded tart from the refuse pile and took it home to her kids.
But that, I suppose, would be classed as stealing..
Maybe baby
I consider myself a reasonably ‘with it’ sort of bloke. Every morning I scan the papers, and every lunchtime and evening I watch the telly news.
I know who’s in power and who would like to be and I have my views (not very complimentary) about Camcorder, Millipede and chums.
Yet when I read about Theresa May’s sad ill health my immediate reaction was – “I didn’t know James May was married.”
Now, not only is James May by far the least memorable of the Top Gear trio of children, I long ago stopped watching that silly programme altogether.
Yet the scruffy, unimpressive and entirely unwatched by me presenter has obviously impacted on my mind far more than has the Home Secretary.
I don’t know what that says about me, but I think it says a lot about our current crop of so – called leaders.
Getting old?
I’ve just been watching a film I recorded earlier. It’s the King Arthur one, with Clive Owen as the lead hero, and Keira Knightley holding down the customary ‘cooor…..!’. Bit.
Came the inevitable lust scene, with the luscious Knightley expertly losing her clothing, quick shots of flesh, and the air filled with groanings and whimperings and general wriggling about.
At which point I picked up my remote and fast-forwarded to find some more interesting bit of the film.
How old am I?
Too blooming old, obviously.
Image: JD Hancock under CC BY 2.0
