My second Jubilee

A cunning plan – Baldric would be proud

The mobile didn't stop on Friday. During every call it seemed two voicemail messages came in. My ear started to hurt at one point. So I left it in the car on Friday night. I took my personal and vintage (not to say ancient) Blackberry to cricket. Lobbed in the bag, it did that thing electronic gadgets do when left to their own devices, the random and catastrophic button press. When I tried to send BLISS an email, her name didn't come up on pushing the first letter as usual. The keyboard had reset to cyrillic or albanian or hebrew or Russian (dyslexic) or something full of odd looking letters and dodgy underscores and nothing recognisable.

So. Cunning plan. Go straight to the contacts list and email from there. That worked. To: BLISS. Hah. Me one, Blackberry nil, me'thinks.

Until I started typing the message and naturally the first word came out as something unrecognisable. So much for that. I took a chance instead and didn't get the milk on the way home.

Rain dance? Just dress in white

This is sooooo corny. Yesterday, not a drop of rain. Walked the dogs, not a drop. Got to the game. Dry as an aboriginary's armpit. Into the changing room. Dry (as described by Wilfrid Brambell's visitng Aussie relative in Steptoe and Son) as a witch's tit.

Got changed. Exchanged the usual pleasantries. Had to vacate the changing room due to someone's Friday evening vindaloo making the place a bit too ripe for comfort , laces undone. Still dry. Dry as Arthur Daly (“get us a vee and tee, Terry, I've got a thirst on you could photograph”). Tied one lace. Other foot up on the bench, tied the second lace just as the first drops of rain started to fall. First two hours in the field, a constant and sometimes heavy drizzle. With three games lost to the rain affected pitches, and two played in pretty wet conditions, the drought does not seem to apply to the cricket season.

A match made in hell?

I flicked through one of those girls' magazines that are found laying about the place. A headline said: “My bulimia made him anorexic.” Well. Not surprising. The smell of sick is a definite appetite suppressant.

I'm living with a Royalist / Communist

After discussing views on the Royals (family, not TV show, my view? Not my Royals) and national paycaps and structures, it turns out BLISS is a communist by ideals, and quite happy to have a royal family. Looking at our political and philosophical viewpoints, it seems I'm an anarchist, seeing no need for heads of state, or government at any level, truly preferring to be left the hell alone by anyone feeling the need to interfere. We both agreed that having ministers and highly paid civil servants running the military (having never experience combat) running the NHS (having never removed an appendix) running the schools (never having got a special needs ten year old through their SATS)...etc...etc...is absurd, bizarre and positively twisted. So that's us. Trotsky and Jessie James.

I think this:

“Anarchism, really stands for the liberation of the human mind from the dominion of religion; the liberation of the human body from the dominion of property; liberation from the shackles and restraint of government.” (Emma Goldman)

Is saying that we're happier left the hell alone to get on with things in our own way.