Belly Ache

Well it has come to that time of year where one has to spend several minutes upon arrival anywhere, divesting oneself of gloves, coats scarves and hats only to have the whole process repeated in reverse before exiting the building again.

Working as I do across quite a number of different sites I find myself having to repeat this little performance multiple times a day in front of various staff teams.

Many of our NHS offices are massively in need of modern heating and the ancient boilers and pipes that we are stuck with heat the offices  up to near blast furnace levels of warmth. This necessitates my having to also remove my jumper more often than not which leads me to a quandary .

Very often my shirt will ‘ride up’ as I remove said jumper, revealing a few inches of pale untoned midriff to all and sundry. I am afterwards forced to swiftly tuck my shirt back into my trousers in what I mentally refer to as ‘the Gasson manoeuvre’.  Sometimes it is possible to untuck the shirt and sit hard upon it prior to removal of the jumper but this is still very uncomfortable.

Now I am quite embarrassed about showing my tummy to work colleagues & so I have taken to a new practice of always changing out of my jumper in the gentleman’s toilet where I can take the precaution of locking the door before I wrestle myself away from the clutches of my jumper. This also affords me the opportunity to quickly check (what remains of) my hair to ensure that the static generated by the removal of the garment has not caused the hair to balloon out like some crazy Einstein.

Although the toilet visit does minimise the embarrassment from crazy hair and belly flashing, it brings with it another problem which is that I become paranoid that people will wonder why I am going to the bathroom and returning with no jumper on. Do people understand my concerns or do that draw the conclusion that I am locking myself in there in order to experiment with different clothing choices like some kind of cut price Mr Benn. Do they visualise me parading up and down in front of the washbasin mirror in different variations of dress and undress. Trousers on my head, shirt fully unbuttoned or whatever outlandish style takes my fancy.

Probably not, but it does mean that I usually try and time my divestment toilet visits to coincide with my frequency of urination in order to allay suspicion.

Roll on the spring.

Frying Pan Funeral

I need to procure a new frying pan. The non stick has finally given up the ghost on our most current one and now begin weeks of sniffing around the kitchenware sections of various shops in an attempt to find a new one which promises to neither stick nor warp with use.


So many years, so many broken promises. I always start the relationship with a new Frying pan in the giddy excitement of a new romance. After many days or weeks of searching I have finally discovered a pan which promises to last for ages & which will not warp or prove unworthy of my commitment.
I marvel at how awesome the non stick is as I return to cooking all the meals that I hitherto was forced to avoid in the old pan.


But then, over the weeks and months that follow, my affection slowly cools and the excitement of a new relationship is replaced by the mundane grind of normal life. The pan; rather than being the focus of exciting new recipes, becomes taken for granted and has to churn out endless omelettes, fry-ups and scotch pancakes.


After the twelve to eighteen month mark I start to notice visible signs of aging and deterioration which I immediately go into denial about. 'no no, it's a great pan. I took ages choosing it. It will surely go on and on'. But in my heart of hearts I know that this is the beginning of the end and I am already starting to cast furtive glances at other frying pans when we are out in town. Embarrassingly having to slam my laptop shut when my wife comes into the room for fear that she will see my internet history and realise that I have once again been looking at pictures of younger frying pans.


Eventually the pan is incapable of managing even the most rudimentary meals shredding & destroying rashers of bacon entrusted to it's care. After the second or third meal is transformed into a shoddy, shapeless mess; I come to my senses and declare that the relationship isn't working and that I need to start looking around for another frying pan that can meet my needs. And the adventure begins again.


This would all be well and good were it not for the fact that I appear to have great difficulty in actually throwing the old frying pans away. Perhaps it is due to all of the emotional investment that I have put into finding it. Or to the memory of all those great meals that it faithfully produced over the years. But when push comes to shove, and I am left holding it over the dark open depths of the wheelie bin; I find that (like Frodo Baggins) I just cannot bring myself to let go.


So it goes into the shed with my other dead frying pans and I tell myself that I will be able to find some use for it in the future (perhaps on a camping trip where I will be cooking over an open fire or as part of  a hastily constructed suit of armour in the event of zombie apocalypse).
This cycle has been repeating every 12 to 20 months so that I now have a not inconsiderable, stack of frying pans. All of which I feel some level of emotional attachment to. This must be how hoarders feel about all of their crap. Perhaps this is how it starts? Too much of an emotional relationship with cold unfeeling objects. Just not feeling able to let go. I have previously written of my tendency to hang onto dreadlocks, teeth and even beard clippings. This is a personality bent that I need to stamp out hard before I become a full time hoarder of bent screws or something!


On the other hand, I do quite like my pile of frying pans. My wife discovered it the other day (on an unauthorised trip into my shed. How dare she!). She demanded that I throw some away which I duely did. She does not have any difficulty in parting with old crap. There is clearly no emotional component there for her, whether it is getting rid of an old and faithful car or a previously loved sweater, she turns her back and moves on without ever giving it a second thought.


What I would really like to do if I am honest, is to continue to collect frying pans (I have given up on ever finding one that lives up to it's claims of a lifetime of stick free cooking). I would like to collect a big pile of them which could then be disseminated to the mourners at my funeral.
'Hello sir. Attending the Gasson ceremony today are we? Please take this Sainsbury's finest range 20 inch deep pan non warp model. Hello madam. You too? Please take this Tefal 18 inch red spot non stick deluxe'.
 Then people could throw them onto my coffin whilst they bid me farewell at the graveside. It would be a bit like the ancient pharaohs who got buried with all of their old crap. Maybe pyramids were just the afterlife equivalent of 'the big yellow storage box company' when all is said and done. Imagine the clatter and clang at the grave side as the accumulated lifetimes worth of frying pans are reverentially chucked on top of the coffin together before being covered in earth. Or maybe I could get them all melted together 'game of thrones' style into a custom made, non stick coffin. A Teflon coated Bier in which to travel to the afterlife.


In any case, the hunt is on for an exciting new frying pan and there is a place in my kitchenware mausoleum for the current incumbent. Hopefully my wife will stay out of the shed in from now on following my dire warnings about using the 'wrong sort of paint'.

Free Luxury Shampoo

I love an 'Air B&B'. Don't get me wrong, I've had my fair share of slightly dodgy ones over the years. We had one in Brazil which boasted and exposed electrical ring main and hot water that had been plumbed in the wrong way so that our first few showers were and exercise in ice cold and boiling hot torture. But I love the feeling that I'm schtupping the hotel system and most of all I love the free stuff that other people leave. There's usually the normal boring things in the kitchen. A half bag of granulated sugar, some questionable looking dried pasta and a cooking sauce that looks about ready to grow legs and dance out of the door. But root a little deeper and you can find some real gems. On our last holiday we had a truly stupendous air B& B at the top of a big tenement overlooking the city sprawl. There was this electronic door key which you had to put the correct code in to turn (which made me feel like James Bond). There was an extra bedroom just for the kids with toys in situ for them to play with. There was a massive TV with incomprehensible remote controls & free wifi.
But best of all there was a bath. A huge gleaming tub surrounded by modern pristine tiles with piping hot water and a lockable door.
This was heaven. Our family have managed without a bath for the past five years in our house as the previous occupant decided to rip it out and replace it with a modern shower cubicle which they never correctly plumbed in (not even back to front). So the shower had no hot water connected and when we did get it going in the end, we discovered that the shower tray had not been sealed so that water pissed down the kitchen walls and short circuited the boiler every time anyone spend more than three minutes washing themselves.
 Three shower units and a lot of swearing later we have sorted the problem but I haven't enjoyed soaking my bones in a bath for literally years.
Back when I first moved out of mum and dads house, up to Nottingham, I didn't own a washing machine. In order to economise and save effort, I used to bath with my dirty laundry. It made perfect sense to me as a 19 year old hippy. Stick a load of fabric detergent in the tub. If it will clean clothes then it will clean me right?
Then just tip the contents of your laundry bin into the swirling waters and step in to join it.
It was quite a nice sensation. I would stir the clothing and socks around as the water slowly grew browner and occasionally I would be able to identify specific items as they rose gently through the murk to greet me like old friends.
Then finally I gave in and purchased a second hand washing machine. We didn't have a TV at the time and I vividly remember sitting enthralled and watching the whole of the first wash from start to finish on my kitchen floor. Magical.


Anyway, I haven't been able to enjoy a good soak in many a long year so I couldn't wait to get into the holiday bath. Unfortunately I had no bubble bath but a quick search around the Air B&B turned up a blue white and gold plastic bottle bearing the legend 'Luxury Shampoo'. I stood on tiptoe to retrieve it from the high shelf in the utility closet and pumped a generous amount into the hot steaming water gushing into the bath. It was a sort of gloopy brown gold colour and had a smell which (though I couldn't directly identify it) spoke of glossy hair and healthy exercise.
A huge mound of frothy bubbles obediently formed and I slipped in to enjoy my first bath experience in the holiday flat. Bliss.
I so enjoyed the bath that I started completely eschewing showers in order to have more time in the tub. By the end of the week I had almost completely used up the Luxury Shampoo but like a good husband I offered it to my wife so that she too could experience Luxury (I like to say 'luxury' as if I am a tipsy Noel Coward...really stretch the word out 'Luck sure ey').
My wife looked at me with an expression of concerned amusement. 'You've been using this in your bath?', 'Yes darling it's lovely. Really bubbly and look; It says it's a Luxury shampoo. You can't get better than that and it didn't even cost us a penny. Someone left it here in the flat after their holiday'.


My wife refused to use the shampoo in her bath. 'Look closer at the label Ian' she insisted. 'It's luxury dog shampoo'. I immediately subjected the label to more careful scrutiny (having previously just glanced at it). To my embarrassment she was indeed correct. It said LUXURY dog SHAMPOO and there was even a little light grey pictogram of a dog on the front (which in my defence was very hard to see on the top shelf of the utility cupboard).
This at least explained the odd aroma and the fact that it had left me with very good hair.


I decided not to inform the children that they had been bathing in a doggy bath all week. It will serve them right for flooding the floor every night. Next time I will definitely purchase my own bubble bath from a reputable dealer (or return to using laundry detergent!).

Caffeine Survivalist

I need coffee. In fact our whole family runs better when coffee is introduced to the mix. My wife and I are so paranoid about the apocalyptic results of the coffee running out that we always have piles of the stuff in the pantry as well as a jar of what we refer to as ‘the emergency coffee’ made up of  run off from the previous bags.  The alternative is too hideous to consider.

Now let me make my position clear. I am not talking about the disgusting freeze dried swill that the peasant classes claim as coffee. I am talking about delicious ground beans run through a caffitierre or coffee machine and poured gently into a beautiful cup which steams tantalisingly as it fills the room with an aroma of brown affluence and calm . I only usually drink two cups a day as my kidneys threatened to explode a few years back and consultants informed me that coffee was instrumental in the formation of kidney stones & best avoided.  

Personally, I am not willing to live in a world where coffee is denied to me and so I have compromised and have just two cups a day. One around 6am and one around 5pm. But the coffee has to be GOOD. I will not tolerate substandard rubbish and so will always refuse offers of coffee when at someone elses house. I favour Taylors ‘Rich Italian’ for preference and have a little song that I sing to myself when I am preparing it (to the tune of ‘she’s an easy lover’ by Phill Collins)

‘He’s a Rich Italian, he makes his coffee strong believe me,

Like a wild stallion, he’ll grind a coffee that will suit your needs…’

‘You know that he’s Italian, He’s a rich Italian, He wears a gold medallion, everyday. ..’  etc

 

Imagine the scene therefore. We are on a family holiday in Poland and our Air B& B (lovely as it is), has no caffitierre or coffee machine. None of the local shops appear to stock them either.  Suffice it to say that, after a couple of days without my morning caffeine fix I was clucking like a heroin addict who’s dealer has just been arrested.

‘I must have coffee’… the local shops were happy to sell any amount of ground beans but nowhere seemed to vend the means to transform them into the warm brown heavenly goodness that I required. In the end I became desperate enough to take matters into my own inept hands & decided to manufacture a ‘home made’ cafitierre out of one of my wife’s stockings, some rubber bands and a big jar that I discovered in one of the cupboards. I cut a hole in the lid of the jar using a knife and we were in business.

I am the Bear Grylls of coffee survival! The resulting brew machine totally destroyed my wife’s stocking and turned most of the kitchen into a damp, coffee grit ridden wasteland but it was worth it. Coffee, glorious coffee flowed from the DIY spout like the nectar of the gods.  Now this holiday can really get started and the kids can come out of hiding. The only draw back is that my wife is now left with one odd stocking. Perhaps I should plan a robbery so that I can make use of it. Waste not want not.

 

Signs & Portents: Who is Mincing Your Meat?

Who is Mincing Your Meat?
What the hell is that supposed to mean? I drive past this sign several times a week and every time I see it I am more and more confused as to what the company are trying to infer.
Obviously they are purveyors of quality meat derivatives to the discerning customer. I understand that much.
But 'Who is mincing your meat'... why did they decide to have that emblazoned across a sign by the roadside at (what I assume must have been) some reasonable expense to themselves.

It seems quite innocent at first glance...but think about it they haven't said, 'is your meat being minced by people who adhere to industry standard hand hygiene regulations'. They said 'who is' not 'How is'. Are they inferring that a certain type of people are preferable as meat handlers. Which type of people are they talking about. Are they a bit racist?? Do they mean that my meat is guaranteed to have been minced only by stout hearted remain voters. Or only by conservative party members who can recount their ancestry back five generations, or only by good Catholics?

This question has been puzzling me for a while during my morning commute to work. I found myself humming a little tune about it which I have transcribed below for your amusement:-

[to the tune of something rousing and patriotic, to a marching band with snare drums and lot of brass]

Who is Mincing Your Meat?
Whose making it GOOD?
Are they the hands of an honest tommy
or the filthy paws of some foreign johnny.
Is your meat being manhandled by a card carrying commie oh
Who is Mincing Your Meat?

Anyway, I don't know who is mincing my meat. It come from Aldi so it's probably being minced by a huge machine where cows go in one end and then a 'mercy button' is depressed and mince comes out in shiny  packages at the other end. Who is pressing the button? Probably some nameless corporate drone working for minimum wage. Maybe I should email Foxholes farm and Shop and apologetically explain that I (like most people) am not on first name terms with the person who is operating the mincing machine.
Suggestions in the comments please.

Trying to Drive in Poland

Polish Drivers are fast. My family went to Poland on holiday this year. Great place, great people, great beaches. As usual I opted to do the majority of the driving as I felt that my blood pressure has had it too easy of late and needed a good run.

I had used a left hand drive hire car before but on that holiday we were fortunate enough to have an air B&B next to the most incontinent birds in the whole of Portugal. These birds had eaten bad fruit or something and we were parked directly below their favourite toilet tree. This resulted by the end of the week in a car which was so totally caked in crap that any slight blemishes to the bodywork were undetectable even to microscopic examination.

On this years holiday we had no such luck and the cost of additional insurance was so astronomically high that I decided to forgo it and trust to prayer and blind terror. This was before I knew about the normal custom and practice of Poland’s drivers.

There was huge tourist  banner at Gdansk airport showing a grinning Polish soldier atop a wartime tank. The headline (in English) read ‘Poland: First to War’. Having now experienced Polish drivers I can well believe this. Probably the polish allied tanks were screaming up behind all of the other drivers and sitting at 80 miles per hour never more than three millimetres away from their back bumpers until they pulled into the slower lane in fear of their lives & watched the Poles swish by.

Now we do have this behaviour in England but it is largely limited to Audi Drivers (which is understandable. Anyone who purchases a car whose very symbol is four conjoined butt holes is giving you a pretty clear indication of their road habits). Usually it only happens a couple of times a journey & I usually start gently pulling over as soon as I see an Audi in the rear-view mirror in order to maintain my calm.

But in Poland this behaviour is not just limited to Audi drivers but appears to be normal custom and practice for everyone. As the motorways are all just dual carriageways, it has become the normal method of overtaking.

After a week or so of this I had somehow managed to bring our shiny hire care through unscathed but then disaster struck and we ended up stuck in airport hire car purgatory. The barrier letting us into the airport drop off car park dutifully dispensed a ticket when we rolled up for our departing flight around 5am. Sadly the parking machine then ate said ticket leaving us stuck between to impassable barriers with my family growing ever more frantic as the time of our planes departure drew nigh.

In the end (after risking death by driving the wrong way down one way systems a couple of times), my wife made a tearful and impassioned plea to the airport staff for help. The sincerity of her message was undermined by it’s having to be relayed through the crappy barrier intercom and furthermore by the fact that there were no staff available at that ungodly hour of the morning.  In the end I took drastic action & dumped the car in a likely looking layby near the airport. We then route marched the children to the departure gate.  From the gate we could view it through the glass; rocking gently on its suspension as Polish drivers whipped past it at speeds approaching mach 2.

When I returned home I wrote a sickeningly nice email to the hire company who (hungry as they must have been for compliment letters to feature in their annual report) waived any punitive charges. My memories of Poland are very positive however. We attended a Polish wedding whilst there which was totally insane. I am used to partying with Brazilians and thought that they were hardcore but they have nothing on the Polish. The wedding band at our venue was hired to play from 5pm to 5am. Even my wife (who is an unstoppable dance floor machine) had to politely retire to our hotel room around 2am in order to prevent her legs falling off. I think at that point they were serving course 125 of the wedding feast. Phew….what an experience. I would recommend it to everyone (but maybe get the extra car insurance deal if you are planning on driving there)!

Failing at the National Anthem

Today I attended my wife’s ‘Naturalisation Ceremony’ (sounds a little sinister doesn’t it). A very proud moment for our family. This magically turns her from an unnatural foreign devil into a nice natural English lady. All that she needed to do to affect this transformation was to swear allegiance to the monarch and then sing verses one and three of the national anthem.

I personally was not aware that the national anthem had a third verse and was at something of a disadvantage to everyone else there as I did not have a printed copy of the words. I was therefore forced to ‘busk it’ and come up with some legitimate sounding lyrics on the fly. This was the result:-

(to the tune of God Save Our Gracious Queen)

She has a lot of dogs

She cleans up after them

She’s good like that

She’s got a pile of dosh But she keeps her old socks

She likes collecting clocks

God Save the Queen!

 

I mumbled my way through this with a look of patriotic devotion fixed on my features and I don’t think that anyone noticed. One dude had his hand clasped over his heart and there was a military guy there who insisted on saluting through the whole thing which was different.

There were some speeches from dignitaries about british history and what it means to be English and then my wife was presented with a colour printed certificate and three baby jars of English jam and other preserves. This concludes the naturalisation and we were left to take some selfies in the nobby council chambers and then go home and eat our jam.

 

It does make me feel proud of our nation. I hope that my wife does not now stop wearing clothing that matches or have retroactive dentistry to make her teeth snaggley and weird. I have suggested that she now needs to viciously defend her position on brext (it doesn’t matter which position she takes. The important thing is to then have no empathy at all for anyone who takes the opposing view no matter how near you were to voting that way yourself before you opted to vote as you did).

 

How to Get Nothing at All Out of Your Bible Study!

How to Get Nothing at All out of your Bible Study:

Have you given your life to Jesus? Are you now concerned that your times of bible study will result in life changing revelations which could interrupt your appreciation of Love Island or Strictly?

Well have no fear. With our guide to ‘getting nothing at all out of your bible study’ you will be able to read the bible every day for many hours without it having any perceivable effect on you. Your friends and relatives will marvel at the complete lack of change in your attitude and lifestyle as you put these simple steps into action.

1)      Just don’t even bother to Open it.

Lets face it, the bible is full of life transforming amazing information hidden away like an Easter egg hunt with just enough poking out to spark your interest. If you are new to bible study then Holy Spirit will be falling over himself to unlock passages for you even if you show only the most shallow and cursory amount of discipline & devotion initially.

Because of this, perhaps the best overall strategy is just to leave the bible alone. Don’t open it, don’t put it anywhere that you will have to see it. Remind yourself that it is an old and heavy book that is very hard to understand.  Tell yourself that you are reading the bible even though this is not the case the case. You  are exposed to bible verses right? You saw someone mention a bible passage on facebook  today (over a picture of a sunset beach). That is surely enough bible study for one day. No need to open your actual bible at all. After all doesn’t the bible itself say that 'too much study wearies the body'.?I don’t know. I never open mine.

2)      Never ask for Help from the Holy Spirit

If you absolutely can’t avoid opening your bible then for heaven’s sake make sure that you don’t  ask Holy Spirit to read along with you. This is a terrible mistake as even the most basic verse can become dangerously relevant if you have taken a moment to pray. 
 ‘ Holy Spirit, this book can be really hard going but I know that you are all across it. Please right now come and give me something to eat from it. Something that will be from Your heart that speaks into my life. I’m just gonna start reading right now and trust that You are gonna start talking to me. Amen’

 No no no no no! This sort of  prayer is poison if you want your life to just remain basically the same but to go to heaven at the  end of it (what I like to think of as ‘fire insurance Christianity’). When you open the bible, you should have absolutely no expectation of it enabling you to hear messages from God. Try to think of it as a religious callisthenic. Just something that God requires you to go though in order to keep Him happy (like prayer). Remember that many very intelligent people have had to spend years of study to understand this stuff & even they can’t agree with each other on what it all means. You shouldn’t expect to be impacted or to understand anything that you read.

Ready…Feeling disappointed, inadequate and under pressure to measure up?
Good…now you are in a great frame of mind to read the bible and get nothing at all out of it.  And remember ‘Keep on not praying’!

3)Expect Instant Progress & Results: Every area of life shows us that there is a wait period between action and results. Whether it’s taking a pill consistently for a period of time before experiencing therapeutic effect or having to water a seed every day for a week before the first green shoots appear.
Despite knowing this, you should approach bible study as if it somehow does not conform to this rule that governs literally every other aspect of your life. Expect instant results. Flop the bible open and stick your finger in at random. If the verse you find does not immediately speak into your situation, become discouraged and tell yourself that bible study is not for you. Certainly don’t invest in easily available study aids or free resources like ‘The Bible Project’ on You Tube to help you. If God wanted to speak to you through the bible then he would have been able to do it in the first six seconds of you reading right?

4)      Don’t Ask for Help and Advice: If you are in a church (and I strongly advise you to not be…it will only strengthen your faith & make you a gentler more rounded person); definitely do not approach anyone for help.

Your church will be full of believers who have been on their own journey into reading the bible for many years. They will be delighted to offer you support and advice on how to get started. They will probably offer to study along with you through the week on messenger or whatever. So avoid that pit trap & don’t tell anyone about your struggles. Tell yourself that they will think badly of you for being so stupid and finding it hard to even open the bible in the first place. Remember that your goal here is a completely apathetic and ineffective Christian witness where you are no different at all from your unsaved neighbours. 

 

5)      Make everything metaphorical: The bible excels at practical life changing advice, but you’re not interested in that. Also, if you are confronted by verses saying that you will do even greater things than Jesus if you believe in Him then it might drive you into the prayer closet as you wrestle with how to become a vessel for the outpouring of His Kingdom. But that sounds like a lot of hard work doesn't it?

In order to not be affected in any way by these very clear ‘calls to action’, make everything you read metaphorical. Jesus didn’t really mean these things to be taken literally, that’s ridiculous. He is just speaking metaphorically. He probably didn’t literally make the earth in six days only. That’s just a helpful myth…and so on.

In this way you can more or less side step any challenge to your personal life or faith and water down the intention of the gospel and the whole word of God. Say things like 'God moves in mysterious ways' when talking about the bible. (This is not true...God has clearly gone out of his way to be very frank and straightforward with us but it sounds vaguely spiritual).

For extra impotence, try taking verses that are very clearly meant to be figurative and insisting on a literal interpretation; ‘I just can’t take the bible seriously. It talks about the trees of the field clapping their hands but trees don’t have hands. Maybe there used to be trees with hands though. Who knows right?’

 

6)      Insist on reading the bible from start to finish: Refuse to accept that the bible is a library of 66 different books,  and just start at the beginning and plough straight through. This will maximise your boredom and discouragement whilst hopefully minimising your understanding and empowerment (remember never to read in a prayerful or open minded way).  Don’t take time to pause and reflect prayerfully on any passages that particularly challenge or speak to you. Just tell yourself that you need to plough remorselessly on and get to the end of whichever boring bit you are on. In this way you can read the bible for ages (thus feeling superior to lesser believers) but actually never run into the word of God at all.

I hope that this guide has been helpful in enabling you to get as little as possible out of your bible study times. I have personally been applying these principles for many decades and am happy to report that I have barely grown at all.  Look out for my future guides on 'How to Ensure that you Never receive healing' and 'How to ensure that none of your prayers are answered'.

Horsing Around

I have a lot of colleagues at work who are horsy people. They love riding horses, cleaning up after horses, falling off of horses & anything else remotely involved with horses.

I was chatting with one such equinaphilliac the other day and raised the issue of horse manure on public pavements. ‘Why is it,’ I asked, ‘that it is socially unacceptable for a dog to foul on the pavement & we issues fines to those found doing so. But the same logic does is not extended to the owners of horses’?

A horse can discharge a huge pile of steaming crap on the pavement and the rider will just continue on unconcerned. Why do we not demand that horsy people conform to our rules for canine fouling with equal vigour? Why are riders not expected to carry a supply of bin bags with them at all times in case their charges suddenly foul the public byway?

My colleague laughed at the suggestion and implied that horse manure is incredibly clean and a good fertiliser and that people should be glad that her horse has blessed the ground with it’s smelly bounty.  My solution therefore is that all horse riders carry a small supply of flags on cocktail sticks with them when they ride.

If their animal should foul the footpath, they need not be expected to pick it up and carry it to the next bin. Rather, they can simply place a flag on it indicating that this is valuable free manure which anyone can claim as long as they have a sturdy enough container (and strong enough constitution). There. Problem solved. Horsy people don’t have to clean up after their animals and I am no longer boiling with barely repressed rage at the inequality between canine and equine rights.

My friend took issue with this plan however. She explained that most riders need to use a ‘mounting block’ in order to get onto their horse in the first place. If they had to dismount in order to place tiny flags on the piles of manure created by their beasts then they would be stranded on the ground like a common Johnny.  I suggested that they could solve this by hailing a passing ‘horseless’ pedestrian and commanding them to kneel by their horse so that they could use them as a mounting block. ‘I will bless you peasant by making muddy boot prints on the back of your cheap tee shirt. Come, kneel before me and count your lucky stars that I do not invoke the right of ‘prima nocte’ into the bargain’.

This brings me to my other point . I suspect that people on horseback spark a deep cultural memory in for us in England. For hundreds of years, if you saw someone on horseback you would assume that they were one of your betters. If the horse crapped all over your small holding then fine. At least the rider had not dismounted and beaten you with the flat of their blade for offending them with your course peasant face. You were lucky to be breathing the same air as them and probably their horse was worth more than everything you owned put together. When seeing someone on horseback, the correct (and safest) response was to tug your forelock (or whatever the equivalent was), get out of the way and cower respectfully until they had gone away to whatever important business people on horseback got up to.  Make no eye contact and hopefully they will pass by without ‘making sport’ of you to alleviate their boredom.

I suspect that there is still a little of this peasant memory in most of us which is why we blindly accept that horse riders should never be challenged about filling the highways and byways of merry England with tons of crap.

I saw a sign next to the road the other day it read ‘Horse Manure: last chance before the motorway’. Brilliant!

 

Prats With Scooters

I was in my car on the way to the office the other morning when I espied a  be-suited chap in his late twenties (or early thirties) whizzing along the crowded pavement opposite on what appeared to be a scooter.

Not a moped you understand but an adult sized ‘child’s push along scooter’ which apparently had been adapted so that it ran on some electric or kinetic motor. This total prat was zooming past everyone else with a look of blissful indifference on his smug face.

‘I am better than all of you,’ it seemed to say ‘I look so cool on this expensive toy that the normal expectations of considerate behaviour on a crowded street do not apply to me’.

Needless to say this display of arrogant hipster rudeness filled me with a seething maelstrom of petty rage. I will admit that part of it was likely my own envy that he was clearly having a lot more fun than me but it was more the smug disregard for other walkers that really raised my blood pressure.

I have a five year old daughter who enjoys zooming along on her scooter. ‘Can I bring my scooter’ she will often ask as we are heading out somewhere. Often my reply is ‘no sweetheart, it will be too busy in town and you might upset people or crash into them’.

My five year old daughter appears to understand the wisdom of this. Although not happy with the situation, she can grasp the concept that it is preferable to curtail personal freedom in order to preserve the delicate balance of politeness and respect that are the bedrock upon which modern society is predicated (this is what she said to me word for word).

This prat zooming along the pavement in flagrant disregard for the safety and comfort of all around him is apparently incapable of grasping the same concept however.

I am not against the use of ludicrously overpriced hipster toys. I am not against using them for your morning commute. But they go incredibly fast and are more or less completely silent. The place for them is either on the road or (failing that) in a cycle lane. Not on the pavement. I understand that you want to use your new toy as much as possible in order to feel better about blowing all that money on what is clearly a child’s plaything. But this is the pavement. It is for walking (or at the most running). If it is a busy morning and everyone is going to school or work then you need to get off of your toy and wait until later when you can use it safely on less crowded streets. Failing that, take it to a park where you can whiz around to your hearts content.

Anyway, I need to find out where I can purchase one of these things so if you have any ideas then please let me know.

Wood Pervert

Hello,

My name is Ian Gasson & I have a confession to make to you all.

For many years now I have been a wood Pervert.

It started when I used to live on a boat & needed a solid fuel burner for heating.

Pretty soon I found myself hanging around skips on building sites, hoping for just a chance to root through and find some scrap wood to burn when the builders weren’t looking.

When I moved into a house like a normal human being I thought that the condition would lapse. But quicklyI slipped back into bad habits and purchased a burner for my garden room.

Stupidly I told myself that I could handle it & that I would only burn a little bit of purchased wood from time to time.

 

But I was kidding myself and pretty soon the old excitement took hold & I found myself in all sorts of crazy situations as I chased the massive rush of  obtaining ‘free wood’.

Wood perversion is a terrible affliction to bear. I might be driving along one day on my way to a work appointment when, out of the corner of my eye I spot a pile of scrap wood in someone's drive. Instantly my pulse quickens and I start to shake & perspire with excitement and anticipation. I try to ignore it but the niggling gnawing knowledge that there is free wood somewhere; just lying around waiting to be claimed, eventually overwhelms me and I crack.

 

First comes the embarrassing and awkward discussion with the home or skip owner.

'erm excuse me, this might sound weird but I wondered if you would let me take some of your scrap wood there for my burner? I promise to then stop hanging around at the bottom of your drive, drooling and making furtive glances at your lumber'.

Then the frantic excitement as I pull up my car and shovel loads of lovely free lumber into the back as fast as possible so that passers by don’t mistake me for a criminal.

At other times I might be walking in the country, innocently enjoying the wonders of nature, my mind a serene pool of calm contemplation. Then I spot a fallen tree that has been left cut up and my palms begin to itch.

The last time this happened I got home and (without informing my family as to my whereabouts) immediately pulled the car out, drove to Wickes and purchased the biggest axe they could supply. Then; like a nutter, I rushed back to the tree as fast as I was able ( in case another wood pervert beat me to the prize) & proceeded to spend about an hour madly chopping. Unfortunately I had not bargained on how heavy the resulting hardwood would be and so I was faced with the impossibility of transporting my earwig filled treasure back to the car.

In the end; 7.30am found me breaking my back  dragging a massive sack full of lumber down the footpath (to the confusion and alarm of the occasional dog walker or jogger that I passed by).

But even that excitement cannot compete with the blessed joy of getting the liberated wood back home and stacking it in a massive pile in my shed. Mmmm Sooo Goooooood!

Sometimes I let myself into the shed when my wife isn't looking just so that I can look at the pile and inhale the lovely smell created by hornbeam, pine and ash gently drying. Sometimes I will pick up a piece that I have chopped up and admire the grain and texture. I have not yet got to the point of gently whispering comforting platitudes to it but…it’s probably not far off.

The perversion really sets in however, when I am so enamoured of my massive pile that I feel bad about diminishing it. I am then faced with the daily torture of wanting to have a fire in the cold mornings but having to say goodbye to some of my hard obtained lumber thus reducing the height of the pile incrementally.

If you have a similar perversion, perhaps we could meet up & form some manner of support group (Dendoholics anonymous?). We can meet in my garden room in front of....a, in front of a, ...a..a  ROARING FIRE!

Bwaaah Ha Ha Ha Ha.

 

I AM THE WOOD LORD! ALL MUST BOW BEFORE THE AWSOME PILE OF MY MAGNIFICENCE!!

I WILL FIND ALL OF THE WOOD AND GET IT ALL FOR FREE AND PILE IT UP AND LOVE IT FOREVER!

ALL SHALL SEE IT AND DESPAIR!!

Paddling Fool

As soon as the temperature breasts above fifteen degrees my children begin to demand that 'the paddling pool be brought out'.
I had managed to put them off for a couple of weeks but last bank holiday weekend I ran out of excuses and beat a path to the back of my cobweb filled shed in search of the thing.

Every year I purchase a new paddling pool and every year the kids somehow puncture it within a couple of days.Barbie has such sharp fingers these days or perhaps my sons Samurai sword wielding Lego men are the culprits.

I manage to unearth the paddling pool but then cannot locate the electric pump. This is essential unless you have two or three hours of spare time which you don't mind spending with your mouth clamped to the questionably hygienic valves of the paddling pool. Gasping and drooling in equal measure whilst your children demand to know (to the nearest second) when the paddling pool will be ready.

I look everywhere for the pump. I always leave it on the same shelf but it's not there. I look on all the other shelves, in all the cupboards. In the end (in desperation) I remove every item in the shed and lay it all in the garden.

No pump.

My wife wanders over and leisurely informs me that she moved the pump into the house last year and it is still in a cupboard.

I swear quietly under my breath so she can't hear me. I put everything back in the shed and go and get the pump. After an hour or so trying to locate it in the sheds musty corners, I now resemble some sort of sweaty, dust and cobweb covered maniac.

I manage to fill the thing with water, boil multiple kettles so that the temperature does not immediately strip the skin from ones legs upon entry and finally release my children to frolic.

That was about two weeks ago. My children frolicked for about two hours and then returned to the house complaining of cold and proceeded to make every available seat and surface damp.
The next day the weather turned cold and blowy again but the paddling pool remained.

It just sits there now, slowly filling with muddy rain water and glowering at me from the bottom of the garden.
'Come and empty me and put me away' it seems to mock, ' you know that it will take frikking ages and that as soon as you have done it, the sun will come out and you will have to go through all the rigmarole of getting me out again'.

I have decided that I will just leave it out there for the moment, at least it gives me an excuse not to mow the lawn (and will kill a big patch of grass making it look awful when I eventually have to move it).
Don't even get me started on the frikking lawn!

Weak Chin

My wife insisted last night that my beard is making me look old beyond my years & demanded that I take swift action.
Dutifully I went up to the bathroom and gave it an almost terminal trimming.
I felt quite sad to see it go. I have been cultivating a bushier than usual 'Stroker' over the winter months as it gives me something to do with my fingers when I'm not doodling and (I thought) makes me look cool. I quite enjoy grooming it into interesting horns and shapes with the shower gel during my morning ablutions. Not to mention the simple joy of stroking it slowly whilst people at work talk to me (second only to slightly raising one eyebrow).
But ... sacrifices must be made for the ones we love so there is nothing for it but to give this face sheep a shearing.
I looked at the (more grey than brown) ball of little hairs that I had collected in the middle of a magazine centre spread with a sense of loss. Perhaps I could secretly stash the beard hair in a matchbox somewhere and take it out to look at every now and then to remind me of the beard that once was? I am actually really bad for stuff like this. I kept my old dreadlocks in a plastic bag at my parents house for years after I cut them off and I already have an old pill bottle with all my children's milk teeth in.
No, it's a slightly creepy and disgusting idea. I swallowed my sense of loss and chucked the estranged beard hair into the bathroom bin.

But looking at my face in the mirror with my new 'compact beard', I couldn't help but feel that my chin looked wrong. Without it's mighty cone of manly hair, my chin looks weak and tiny. My face looks badly designed. Like when you play around too much with the character creation menu in a video game and end up with a hero who looks as if their face was sat on when they were a child.

I have to walk around and live my life with this chin...oh God...what am I going to do?
I console myself with the old adage that ' the difference between a bad haircut and a good haircut is about three days' and decide to try and avoid contact with people until it has grown out a bit.
I can probably get away with talking behind my hand and wearing really high polo neck shirts for a while.

Signs & Portents - Happy Nightmares

So ok...this business sells beds and somehow decided that 'Happy Nightmares' was an appropriate name for the business. This is a terrible name for a bed company.
I suspect that they originally wanted to call it 'Sweet Dreams.co.uk' or ' HappySlumbers.co.uk' but quickly found that these domain names were already taken and so ended up casting around for some vaguely sleep related domain name that was still available.

There should really have been a 'proofing stage' at some point here. Some one should have stopped this persons passion project in it's tracks before things go past the point of no return.
I imagine that the conversation might have gone something like this:
- John: So I hear you are setting up a mattress company online Bob. What are you thinking of calling it?

Bob: Well I wanted a name that conveys that we sell beds that will give you a really good nights sleep & I've come up with the perfect name.'Happy nightmares .co.uk'

John: er 'Happy Nightmares' that's what you're going with is it?

Bob: yeah...it says it all 'Happy Nightmares' we can do like a logo with a ghost on our delivery vans and stationary and everything.

John: um, yeah. The thing is that, well, I think you may have missed a bit of a problem there mate.
Bob: really...what do you mean?

John: Well, nightmares...you know. Happy Nightmares. Don't you think that's a bit of an oxymoron?
You're not going to be happy if you're having a nightmare are you. You're going to be waking up in a cold sweat f*#$ing terrified and gasping for air. Is that really the impression that you want to give potential customers when they think about your brand.

Bob: no no...you've got it all wrong. 'Happy nightmares', its a fun subversion of an accepted concept. People are going to love it. It's playful.

John: I've got to say I think you are wrong on this one. You are just going to make people feel creepy. Especially if you put a ghost on the livery. 'Purchase our beds and ensure that you have your sleep nightly disturbed by visions of bloody horsemen galloping through fiery slaughter and death. Our mattresses come with waterproof sheets as they will have you pissing yourself with fear' I just can't see nightmares being a good USP for your business model.

Bob: oh dear...I can start to see what you mean. I never thought of it like that. What on earth am I going to do. I'm already down two grand on the domain name and stationary orders. Oh no. What a nightmare situation.

John: well....what about re branding and selling to a niche market who would appreciate the disturbing connotations.

Bob: you don't mean?

John: Yes...that's right. Goths and Emo's. Those weirdo's will lap it up and probably pay extra into the bargain. Just dress all your staff up like vampires and have a Halloween launch event.

Bob: you're an amazing friend John. You've saved my business!

note pad doodle

I doodled this guy during a long governance meeting this month. Not very happy with how he turned out but I like the shoes!

World Book Doh

So this is the third year in a row that my children have had to take decorated potatoes to school for world book day. I struggle to see the connection personally but, apparently nothing celebrates literary endeavour so much as a badly decorated legume.
The idea is that you decorate the spud to look like a character from a children's book. And so we all move forward together, ships against the current etc.

Now my problem with this is that my children are very small with under developed fine motor skills. Asking them to decorate anything to look like anything is a tall order. This inevitably leads to a situation where my wife and I complete the homework projects for our five and seven year olds so that they do not have to shamefacedly carry their own crappy efforts into school. All the other children's parents have completed their children's homework assignments so that, if any actual children attempted the projects, the results of their labours would only look hopelessly bad by comparison.

Now I don't want my children to be bullied for having inferiorly painted vegetable produce and so I do what any good parent must and break out my paint set.
This is where the rot starts to set in.
You see I used to be quite a dab hand at model making and painting (thank you Warhammer fantasy Battle  for my wasted teenage years and possible lead poisoning). So I end up getting much to involved in the Spuddington Bear model that I am working on. To the degree that I will not allow my children to touch or go near it in case they mess up the miniature suitcase and jar of marmalade that I have lovingly crafted from rigid wall insulation and glue.

When the spud does not achieve a worthy place in the competition, I am more annoyed than my children! After a few years of this, I am understandably pissed off and refuse to lend my genius to the projects anymore. This means that my poor wife was brandishing a paintbrush at 6am in an effort to make a packet of baby potatoes resemble the very hungry caterpillar (second prize by the way!).

Schools, please stop this ridiculous charade. Parents are busy people. We do not have time to paint potatoes or manufacture scale models of Buckingham Palace or scratch build a stethoscope from a balloon and some double sided tape. (This is all genuine crap that we have had to do for homework).
Make a rule that parents are not allowed to support in homework and stop setting small children ridiculous projects that they are clearly incapable of completing.
Accept the rubbish that they bring for what it is. Slightly less valuable than when it was destined for the recycling bin. Stop expecting anything vaguely good.

Otherwise I swear that next world book day I will just magic marker a smiley face on a potato and write a sign next to it saying that it is Mary Poppins. Hey maybe I could stick a cocktail umberella in it too...Maybe some sort of carpet bag...hmmm, I could probably make that if I cut the toe off of an old sock and then use something to make the handle...


OH DAMN!!!

A Turd In the Hand

Picture the scene: an idyllic Brazilian beach. The sun is shining, my children play in the shallow warm surf as hundreds of people parade along the coast for miles in each direction. The tide is out and it's about a kilometre or so back up to the busy kiosks, bins and shops at the top.
Then, disaster strikes! My two year old girl somehow manages to deposit a huge turd into the surf at our feet. I am immediately forced to make a split second decision. Do I ignore the offending fudge monkey (perhaps sweep it out into the waves with an innocent flick of my flip flops), or do I swiftly take ownership of it as any good parent would and clean up the beech? The bins are miles away and there is no option to bury the horrid thing without risking it being dug up again immediately by gulls or other children. To add insult to injury, 'turdenstein' appears to be fairly buoyant. It just keeps floating there in the shallows staring up at me like a tiny brown lilo.

Unfortunately in my moments of frozen indecision, other people have started to notice & remark upon my daughters latest creation. The decision has been taken out of my hands (or rather into my hands).
I manfully reach down and grab the offending item like the responsible parent that I am. But this is just the beginning of my problems. I now face the long lonely walk back up the beach to where the bins/drains etc. are. And the beach is packed out. Umbrella shaded sun worshippers, people selling beer, sweet corn and even one Brazilian maniac who has set up a full meat barbeque on his push bike. He is making his red hot fatty way along the strip selling kebab skewers of un named meat to holiday makers and locals alike.

Many people make eye contact with me as I stride up towards the bins. I return their gaze with what I hope is a reassuringly firm nod which says,
'Yes I am clearly a gringo. Yes this is a ripe  turd that I am clutching in my hand. No this is not something that British people traditionally bring to the beach. No, I am not interested in purchasing an ice cream or coconut from you at this moment in time'.

I finally make it to the palm shaded salvation of the bin area but it is also packed with people. Now the hot embarrassment as I have to wait in line to use the bins without people noticing what I am trying to surreptitiously dispose of.
Eventually I make it and manage to hide the massive douche under a Cornetto wrapper. I wash my hands under the outdoor tap and walk back to my family at the waters edge with my neck burning in shame as much as with the hot afternoon sun.

Ewwwww.....

Since having children, I have been pissed on, thrown up on, kicked in the balls almost daily at times and (on one occasion) hit so hard by my infant son with a metal torch that I almost passed out.
But the time with the turd on holiday is my absolute no holds barred worst experience to date.
What is yours?

Trying to Understand Cars

My car has developed a bumpy wobble at the back.
I have been in denial about it for a month or so. I keep telling myself that the state of the roads in Hertfordshire is just getting worse and worse but the wobble is now so bad that it feels as if I am driving across a dirt track in Africa.

I become stupidly superstitious. I pray and ask God to send angels and take the wobble away but God is silent on the subject. It's as if He expects me to use my own initiative and sort it out rather than blindly using prayer as some kind of metaphysical 'slot machine'.

After another couple of weeks I realise that God is not going to send angels to fix my car in the night and start to really worry about the wobble.
In my mind the potential issues that may be causing it become more and more ludicrously expensive.
I know very little about cars.
I mean, I understand that forward motion is not achieved by a team of hobgoblins under the hood engaging in black magik but, at some level I remain very superstitious about them. I don't really understand what makes them go. They seem to me to be capricious and fantastic creatures which require a delicate balance of incantations and superstitious rituals in order to work .

In the end (when the wobble is so bad that I am too embarrassed to take passengers) I crack and visit a local garage. I am immediately intimidated by the overall clad denizen behind the desk. He is clearly a 'real man' who understands which end of a wrench to hold and doesn't need to look up what type of engine oil to buy in shops.
To offset my embarrassment at the wobble situation, I quickly fall into what I mentally refer to as my 'talking to mechanics' manner. This involves trying to appear competent in regards to vehicular maintenance (whilst probably betraying my total lack of understanding).

'Yeah mate, I'm not sure whats going on with it. It's developed a bit of a wobble in the rear lately. I'm thinking it's maybe the tracking or the Schubert pin. Maybe the drive train is off flange or something'.

He follows me outside and looks at the rear wheels for the briefest of moments.
'Yeah, that's probably the issue' he grins, pointing at the state of the tread on my rear tyres.
I must confess that I had not paid overmuch attention to them recently. Again, this is an area of quiet denial for me (similar to my approach to banking and my blind spot when it comes to the fact that the bin requires emptying).

The tyres are in such an advanced state of wear that I can in fact see the wire sticking through them.
There is no option available other than to throw myself at the garages mercy and ask for immediate new tyres.
Although the situation made me look like a prize plum in front of the 'real men' at the garage. It did serve to give them all a good laugh (I could see them laughing and pointing at my knackered tyres through the glass) & the car is now 'sans wobble'.

Hopefully this will pacify the car into good behaviour for a good while yet. I am currently avoiding looking too hard at my reflection in shop windows when driving at night as have a sneaky suspicion that one of my headlight bulbs needs replacing.

Oh Father, please send now thy angels in this thy child's time of darkness...

Trying to Learn Piano 7: One hundred Hours!

So this week I finally reached my first one hundred hours of piano practice. That's one hundred hours of crouching in my freezing shed at the bottom of the garden, pounding out badly syncopated melodies like some sort of mentally ill poddington pea.

I have learned a lot in this short time. Firstly I have learned that you should never try and practice when your five year old daughter is present as she will want to play counterpoint (but to a totally dissonant song which is taking place in another universe where there is no concept of music).
She also loves pressing random buttons whilst I am practicing which leads to hitherto unimagined versions of songs. 'Fur Elise' for pianoforte and drowning Rottweiler anyone?

Secondly I have learned that keys on the ALDI keyboard occasionally stop making any noise during practice. Particular culprits are the D keys after about ten minutes of playing. This has made learning Bach's minuet in Gmajor more challenging than it needed to be. Writing this, I am now wondering if there is a connection between my daughters frenzied button mashing and the sudden lack of D's

Thirdly I have learned that composers do not identify flats and sharps in their sheet music if they are part of the key signature. This has led to the embarrassing situation where a friend had to inform me that the previously mentioned minuet has some F sharps in . I like my version better. I think Bach would have liked it with no F sharps or D's in it. It sounds more like music you would hear in a commercial for toilet rim cleaning equipment though. I imagine a bold silky male voiceover saying something like
 'Use Turdblaster Special D to scrub those darn dastardly dags from your rim and leave it  F sharp and sparkly white'
and then it cuts to film of a wife knocking on the closed bathroom door and the husband calling back  'I'll be done in just a Minuet darling'.

I have successfully learned some songs and intro's. My favourite is Van Halens 'JUMP' which has led to my children cracking the Artex in the kitchen ceiling as they leap from the shower in the room above bellowing 'might as well JUMP!!' every night before bed.

I finally bit the bullet last week and ordered a proper piano from Bonners. It comes this week. I am hoping that my wife will allow it to live in the house with the nice furniture. Also that all of the D keys work on it.
Thankyou for all your comments and encouragement.
Best comment will receive one of my original blog doodles and a short poem on the subject of your choice.

Actual Emails to our IT department

 

 

 Hi guys

Just a quick query if I may

My email accounts being

Locked every day

Each day I unlock it

But each morning it’s locked

It’s a mystery

And I’m going out of my box

 And the worst thing about it

Is I can’t get through

The call waiting tunes awful

Please put on something new

 I’m running out of new passwords

I’m not that creative

Pretty soon my brain will become vegetative

 So please can you help me

Please sign my release

Please code out the issue

Please give me some peace

 Many thanks,

Ian Gasson

__________________________________________________________

Dear Ian Gasson,

Incident Reference Number:  INC0310971

Short description of Incident: NHS Mail - Account Password Reset/Unlock

We are pleased to inform you that the above incident was resolved

 

 

 

__________________________________________________________________

Hi chaps,

Just to inform you that the issue with my email account locking me out persists. It locked me out twice yesterday and again this morning.

On the positive side, I have not had to change my password the last few times I have unlocked it. This is great news as I am fast running out of passwords that I can reliably remember.

If it is not possible to stop my account from locking me out every day I may be forced to start using passwords from well-known Hollywood blockbusters.

Swordfish will be at the top of my list.

Many thanks for your continued support,

 

Ian Gasson

 

__________________________________________________________

Dear Ian Gasson,

Incident Reference Number:  INC0310972

Short description of Incident: NHS Mail - Account Password Reset/Unlock

We are pleased to inform you that the above incident was resolved at 15-01-2019 10:32:57 GMT with the
following resolution notes:

NHS Mail - Password Reset/Account Unlocked. Please remember that you can unlock or reset your password without contacting the HBL ICT service desk by answering your security questions by clicking the "forgotten password" option on www.nhs.net

 

 

___________________________________________

Hi Team,

It saddens me greatly to have to inform you that; despite your staffs valiant and ceaseless effort on my behalf, my email account was once again locked out this morning.

Whilst I appreciate the herculean amount of resources that you have already employed investigating the problem; unfortunately I must entreat you to go ‘once more unto the breach dear friends’ .

I can only imagine how demoralising it must be to have sent me so many emails saying that the problem is resolved, only to taste the bitter tang of defeat the next day when it turns out that it was not resolved at all.

 

As you can no doubt deduce from the fact that I am using email. I have already unlocked the account myself. I must therefore request your assistance in the more delicate problem of finding out why the account is constantly locking me out each day.

I once again wish you & your companions every success in the endeavour. Perhaps today is the day that we will crack the conundrum for good.

 

‘Gentlemen…. to today’s fox!’ [insert sound of an expensive Chrystal wine glass being smashed on the ground from horseback]

I remain yours very thankfully and sincerely,

 

Ian Gasson