Thanks one and all for your kind thoughts, they all mean a lot to me. On the plus side, there’s more room on the bed…
Goodbye dear friends.
I said somewhere recently (I think FB), that with my favourite cat gone and my favourite dog dead, I was a little anxious about what the third thing might be (you know, bad things come in threes). Well, Bentley died today. Heart failure.
A buddy of mine and I committed that tonight we would each to write a post. So I did.
First of all, my heartfelt thanks for all your condolences. And since we’re still in wringing of hands and wailing lament mode, I should probably mention that Beau (my most favourite cat of all time), went out exploring over a month ago and hasn’t returned. Obviously with all the snakes that are about, it’s unlikely that he ever will.
It’s a sad day. My best little mate died of organ failure early this morning. I’m really going to miss him.
These posts are supposed to be automatically published on FB but I’m getting an error regarding the photos. Let’s see if this one works.
This is how we get our meat around here.
Update: Nope, still no good.
The advent of Spring seems to have brought on an attack of manic ocd, of which I have been taking full advantage. My computer room, kitchen and bedroom have all been organised to within an inch of their lives. And my workshop now actually exists.
This was just a taste of things to come.
Too bad I ran out of screws, I could have put more crap on my wall.
The real work was yet to begin.
This is a post from way back. I found it on an old backup drive the other day, so in the absence of any ‘actual’ posting, here it is:
Years ago, when I lived in England, I worked for department store called Marks & Spencer. Not all dressed up nice and selling quality goods, but in a small warehouse loading trucks. And not even loading quality stock but instead, shop fittings, toilet rolls, stationary and anything else to do with the running of the stores.
This was unskilled labour, and everyone except me was Irish. On this particular day I was working with Paddy and Paddy (that wasn’t their real names but to Poms all Irish are Paddy and all Scots are Jock, interestingly the Scots call everyone Jimmie). Old Paddy had lived in England for a long time and spoke quite clearly. Young Paddy was another matter; he had only been there for a couple of weeks and was near impossible to understand.
We had to load one of those (heavy) refrigerated deli display units onto a truck. This was one big mutha and it would be a tight squeeze getting it onto the loading dock. I was at the back pushing and young Paddy was at the front pulling and guiding it through the door. All of a sudden he called out “Weet! Mairnscart!”. Not being fluent in Gaelic, and seeing no sign of a Wheatman’s cart, I took this to be Irish for “Push harder!”. This was not the time to discuss the Irish language, so I just pushed harder. “Asset weet! May Airn Scart!” he repeated (this time a bit louder) and once again I complied. It was then that Old Paddy, who had been alerted by young Paddy’s increasing volume, came rushing over and shouted at me “He said wait! His hand is caught!”. Which, I now saw, it was.
In fact all I could see was four fingers sticking out between the fridge and the door frame. Unfortunately we were laughing so much it took us another couple of minutes before we could free his hand. (It didn’t help that while we were pulling our guts out trying to get the unit off his fingers, I yelled “Pull man! Pull like you’re pulling an Arab off your sister!”). Until now I had never before seen an old man collapse in hysterics on the ground. That’s one thing about the Irish, they not only tell a good joke; they appreciate one too.
Oh yeah, no broken fingers, just bruising and swelling.
22/10/11: I didn’t edit it, in fact I didn’t even read it!