Drivers with hats

There is a kind of driver that I call a Sunday Driver. They take a little spin in the country - not necessarily on a Sunday (and not necessarily in the country, come to that) - and hold all the rest of us up. They usually wear hats.

Let me explain. I have a theory that drivers have a speed centre around the crown of their heads, and that a hat (the best is a trilby) depresses the speed centre and causes the driver to drive - Very. Slowly. Indeed. Like. This. Holding up all the traffic beind them. These drivers don't use their wing mirrors, so have no idea that they are interfering in everyone else's plans.

I also hate tail-gaters, but enough of this for today. It's been a tiresome day, what with Sunday drivers and tail-gaters (and a lot of driving), and I'm now going to go away and read a relaxing book.

And eat chocolate.

Technobabble, my granny, and button B

It's my generation, of course, though that shouldn't be an excuse.

Take yesterday. HTML, right? You know what it means, I don't. But I need to. So I Google it. And surprise surprise - the explanation for things technical is so shrouded in more things technical, that I am no wiser. It is like those old safety curtains at the theatre. A screen comes down and on it is written these chilling words. YOU WILL NOT UNDERSTAND THIS.I am frustrated, and very cross with myself. And the screen.

Why can't someone somewhere explain these things. Very. Simply. In. Words. Of. One. Syllable? For people like me?

And then I thought of my granny. Years ago, I tried to get her to use a phone box. Easy. Just put your money in, then press button A if there's a reply, or button B to get your money back. What could be easier?

"Oh no!" said Granny, backing away as from the phone box as though it were some man-eating wild beast "I could never do that!"

At the time, I didn't understand. I do, now. After a lifetime of change, Buttons A and B were a challenge too much. She had had enough.

So have I.

Sorry, Granny. I wish I'd been more understanding at the time.

(PS if anyone understands HTML and can use simple, plain English, please tell me where I can find them.)

Magpie 132

ROOM TO LET
She said, "this will do,
And it's got a nice view.
But it's big, and, well, bijou it ain't."
He corrected her grammar
And said (with his stammer),
"It just needs some p-p-p-paint."



(The best I could do after a week of visitors. Thanks once again to Tess at Magpie Tales for the picture.)

I don't want to see Prince Harry's bottom

Am I the only person to be terribly bored by this whole subject? Is there really nothing better to preoccupy the purveyors of news and newspapers? The Times has devoted double spreads three days running (and several articles) to the subject, but today, it pompously tells us that while it doesn't choose to print Those Photos, it thinks other papers are entitled to, since they are freely available on the internet. What it doesn't seem to see is that people who see them on the internet choose to see them; presumably, they search them out. If readers see them in the paper, they have no choice (unless they buy The Sun deliberately).

As for bottoms - and other bits - as a nurse, a mother of sons, a wife, I know what they look like. Yes, they differ. A bit. But THEY ARE NOT INTERESTING, even if they are Prince Harry's (I haven't seen the photos, but I don't suppose he is very different from anyone else).

That's it. I'll shut up now.

Why the menopause?

Yet another "scientific study" has come up with the this ridiculous exlanation for the menopause: (in summary) it's there so that there are plenty of grannies to look after the new generation, rather than carry on breeding themselves.

No no NO! It's perfectly obvious to me why women reach a manopuase; if fertility continued into old age, who would look after all those babies? Given that it takes about 18 years to see them to maturity, we need those extra post-menopause years to see them out of the nest. Also, as any grandmother will tell you, we are TOO TIRED to go on producing babies for ever. Some of us want to travel, write books, paint picture, climb Everest. This is OUR TURN. The kids will have theirs. OK?

This argument presupposes that men, whose fertility persists interminably, are incapable of seeing those same babies out of the nest. Well, let's face it; in some cases (not all, but some) it could just be right.

I do wish these scientists would stop wasting years of "research" on these silly projects, and just ask us. It would save so much time.

All the world loves a lover?

No, it doesn't. All the world may be pleased that the lovers have found each other, and that they're happy, but I doubt very much whether we love them.

Think about it. That couple eating each other's faces off on the street corner. Do we love them? Of course we don't. The other day, we were out having a pizza, and the couple at the next table were obviously deeply in lurve. So much so, that when he went to the loo, their farewells verged on the ridiculous, and upon his return he was greeted like an oil rig worker who'd been toiling away in the stormy North Sea for six months. So bad was the situation that I was tempted to go over to them and say: "OK, guys. So you love each other. That's great. Now please take yourselves off home to bed, and get it out of your system, because you're putting me off my Fiorentina (with extra spinach).

(I'm afraid I'm still being a grumpy cow.)

Magpie 131

A LITTLE JAUNT IN THE FOG

"Oh where have you got to, my dear?"
Shouted Bill, "it's so foggy down here.
I told you that boat
Was unlikely to float,
And I fear you've gone over the weir."

Cried his wife, "don't you fret abut me.
I'm just popping down to the sea.
And if I'm still alive
I'll be home around five,
And I'll bring back fresh herrings for tea."

(With thanks to Tess at Magpie Tales for the picture)