Said it before, but I’ll say it again – how on earth those hardy souls who write a blog EVERY day do it, I just don’t know. And those phoneaholics who wander about the place with the instrument superglued to an ear or grasped between flickering, texting, tweeting fingers. How come they have SO much to say? I’m not sure they do. Not unlike radio phone –ins. People do it because they can. “OK –over now to Roy in Castle Bromwich. Roy, what’s YOUR take on hedge funds ?
Long pause. “Hello ? Hello ?”
“Yes – go on Roy – your feelings about hedge funds…….”
“Oh yes ,well – can you hear me ?”
“Loud and clear Roy”
“Oh, well, yes, erm, it all began in 1978 when my sister tripped over a rhinoceros…………”
But I’m not a total communications luddite. I can see that in terms of intercontinental goings-on, instant contact is a Good Thing. Far better than lighting bonfires of different colours or having riders thrash horses across country to rendezvous with a Royal Navy frigate which, given fair winds, will arrive in Blighty with the months-old news that the Aussies have still got the Ashes.
Meanwhile, on the domestic front, work’s been hectic – another Good Thing. My hens are thriving, laying like mad and remain very funny, and probably amongst the most engaging creatures around. There was a distressing news item today, concerning a livestock lorry crashed on the M6. Its contents- 4000 chickens- escaped. Surprisingly, most were rounded up. Poor buggers. They were probably on their way to a disgusting battery farm. By far the best outcome of that incident would have been for ALL the chickens to escape into the countryside and establish a whole new era of Wild Chickens. They are, after all, very resourceful birds. They’d find food. Most would find safe roosts. Some would be taken by foxes. Idiot humans with guns [like the damn fool who shot the rhea recently] would account for more, but most would manage very well. Of course, the other ideal outcome would be for the battery farm owner to go bankrupt and have to take a job cleaning up chicken pooh on a humane, free range chicken farm.
There, that’s the irrational bit over with.
Soon, I’ll be 70. How the hell that happened is a mystery. It sort of crept up. And I’ve never been a fan of Milestone birthdays – 18.21,40,50,70 etc. You get to be as old as you get to be. I’ve known some really good types who never reached 60, never mind 70, and, it has to be said, some utter ratbags who are still spreading misery and discontent at 80+. But we are going to spend a few days away, up on the North Yorks coast in a little place called Staithes, in a dog-friendly cottage right on the bay beach, which is also dog friendly, so Maggie [for it is she] will be able to hurtle about like a loony.
Anyway, all this essential reading has been written early. The month’s not over yet. All manner of things might happen in the interim. Nigel Farage might lead the Opinion Polls. Ed. Milliband might realize what a sitting target the Tory party is. I might suddenly give a damn about who manages Manchester United next and certain persuasive WOMEN with very big guns might take the leader of Boko Haram into an intimate corner and have a cosy heart to heart with him.
PS Have I spelt Boko Haram right? Don’t care. It doesn’t deserve grammatical niceties.