angela tells me that she was robbed today by two con men who emptied her till. I am not a swear blogger but I hope the fucking bastards die in a pool of their own shit. She is the mother of two decent and intelligent boys and is struggling to develop a thriving business in difficult circumstances. The theft has deprived her of a week's considerably less than national minimum wage, for which she works hard.
Naturally she dialled 999 as soon as she discovered the loss. 'The Police' were prompt, efficient, very supportive and generally 'fantastic' (in stark contrast to my own annoying encounter with an overly officious Alnwick policeman) and I don't doubt that eventually they'll catch the scum, who robbed a number of other shops in the area, but I wonder whether the courts will honour their part of the bargain between The Law and The Public.
Wednesday, 23 July 2008
Compare and Contrast
Thanks to Gallimaufry & Chips, an excellent, always interesting blog which is very much a Gruff 'more than daily' read, I've had a little fun testing the reading levels of this and another of my blogs, Pox Anglorum. Pox was assessed, like Gallimaufry & Chips, at 'genius' whilst this blog is merely of 'college (postgrad, recte: post-graduate)' standard. Whilst it's just a bit of fun, and utterly meaningless (and a rating of 'genius' means nothing more than that the authors of the test find a certain level of writing incomprehensible), the difference neatly demonstrates my own attitudes to each blog: Pox Anglorum was always intended as a very correct organ in which posts are carefully constructed, with long convoluted sentences and, as nearly as I am able, impeccable spelling and punctuation. Contributions there are intended as lectures, though the muse seems to have deserted me for the present and the foreseeable future, whilst contributions here are not meant as anything more than the disjointed conversational ramblings of an untidy mind. Spelling and punctuation are of less importance here and polysyllabic words less in evidence. Grrrr ... uff is meant for relaxation, in other words, whilst Pox is bloody hard work, which is why it isn't done.
Monday, 7 July 2008
Life Goes On And Time Waits For No Man
One of the disadvantages suffered by those of us living life in a rut is that one tends to be overtaken by others not so hampered. It's of little consequence when viewed in the context of the grand scheme of things (even lemmings flourish in despite of their collective stupidity - and yes, I'm aware that's a 'myth') but for the individual it can be bloody irritating and, my being also, in the words Of A A Milne, 'a bear of very little brain', it can also be a little dispiriting personally.
I'm stuck in a rut and it's bloody annoying to see those who are not so hampered racing ahead.
I lived for a while in Northumberland, more specifically in Berwick-upon-Tweed, England's bastion against the Jock (which has never been part of Scotland - a lemming like myth - though occasionally seized by the 'keng of Scorts', and always retaken) and for eight and a half years, but had to move from there when my money (much of which, a disturbingly large amount, in the last few months, was lent to me without surety by angela) eventually ran out (I put forty of my last fifty quid into the tank of my van and drove myself, with one eye on the temperature gauge and the other half on the road and half on the very dodgy fuel gauge, to Mrs Gruff's doorstep, there to gather my resouces for my return), and wish to live in Northumberland again but hope of that is now more distant than ever, thanks to 'Wife In The North' whose acute commercial acumen has served to render my dreams even less realisable than they were when I left seventeen months ago.
I retain a 'presence' in the county, at a price, but my thoughts turn to disposal in the interests of economy, as has so often been necessary before, as a way of reducing my monthly outgoings. This is becoming tedious, principally because, at fifty two, I'm now all too aware that tempus does indeed fugit and one does eventually run out of time in which to realise one's dreams, though the effort, sweat and these days, the aches and 'pains', not to mention the expense, almost balance the scales. As I age I find it harder to retain the optimism that sustained me through similar periods in earlier years and the certainty that the success of WITN must inevitably inspire a lemming like rush of emulatresses (word copyright of W G Gruff, 2008), with entirely predictable effects on property prices and rents, merely adds to my gloom.
Reading this twenty four hours after writing it I find that I have no idea what I was talking about when I referred to balancing scales. In vino veritas, undoubtedly, but what is the point of truth if it is subsequently unfathomable?
I'm stuck in a rut and it's bloody annoying to see those who are not so hampered racing ahead.
I lived for a while in Northumberland, more specifically in Berwick-upon-Tweed, England's bastion against the Jock (which has never been part of Scotland - a lemming like myth - though occasionally seized by the 'keng of Scorts', and always retaken) and for eight and a half years, but had to move from there when my money (much of which, a disturbingly large amount, in the last few months, was lent to me without surety by angela) eventually ran out (I put forty of my last fifty quid into the tank of my van and drove myself, with one eye on the temperature gauge and the other half on the road and half on the very dodgy fuel gauge, to Mrs Gruff's doorstep, there to gather my resouces for my return), and wish to live in Northumberland again but hope of that is now more distant than ever, thanks to 'Wife In The North' whose acute commercial acumen has served to render my dreams even less realisable than they were when I left seventeen months ago.
I retain a 'presence' in the county, at a price, but my thoughts turn to disposal in the interests of economy, as has so often been necessary before, as a way of reducing my monthly outgoings. This is becoming tedious, principally because, at fifty two, I'm now all too aware that tempus does indeed fugit and one does eventually run out of time in which to realise one's dreams, though the effort, sweat and these days, the aches and 'pains', not to mention the expense, almost balance the scales. As I age I find it harder to retain the optimism that sustained me through similar periods in earlier years and the certainty that the success of WITN must inevitably inspire a lemming like rush of emulatresses (word copyright of W G Gruff, 2008), with entirely predictable effects on property prices and rents, merely adds to my gloom.
Reading this twenty four hours after writing it I find that I have no idea what I was talking about when I referred to balancing scales. In vino veritas, undoubtedly, but what is the point of truth if it is subsequently unfathomable?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
