Negative Soundbyters – Good morning! I am feeling a little bit bleary eyed this morning having watched Sergio Garcia late into the evening finally win the Masters in his 74th attempt at winning a Major. (For Mrs H’s golf is the game where the men (and women) hit the little white ball into the hole; Garcia is a male golfer from Spain; the Masters is played in America and a Major is like a massive tournament to win…) Hoddy, you know that Mrs H is preggers right? Her sense of humour probably doesn’t stretch to 73 jibes; at the moment it’s probably about two!
I have tried my hand at golf and it is fair to say with very little success. I like to think it’s because I am a left hander who always played with right handed clubs. That’s easy to change; just buy left handed clubs, but I needed an excuse when things didn’t go my way – and that was often. I have always had a penchant for ball sports but somehow golf alluded me. I would stride out onto the first tee full of purpose; shoulders rippling; big dog in hand (no Mrs H not an actual dog!), brand new Pro V ball on the tee (at about £6 a ball); steady myself; go through my pre-shot routine; settle over the ball – and BOOM! Massive divot and ball trickling past the ladies tee…!
By the end of the round I was playing with range balls; my shoulders slumped; red-faced; sweat everywhere; sense of humour lost somewhere on the 4th tee box – and just a general desire never ever to play the game again! There is a saying about “digging deep” when times are tough; no matter how much turf I shifted (and literally it’s a lot in a golfing context) I couldn’t quite make it happen; thankfully Sergio had the reserves to bring it home last night. And his Missus was there at the edge of the green to congratulate him – in the world’s tiniest miniskirt. (Yes it was that small!) Apparently she is also a golfer so maybe she had come straight from hitting a few balls at the range. Or maybe she just likes wearing short skirts….okay Hoddy…let’s move on…because this isn’t going anywhere…!
Any events of geopolitical significance to report?
It must be The Donald’s strike against Syria. The regime launched some chemical weapons against its own people; just another war crime in a civil war that has killed hundreds of thousands and displaced millions. Fair dues to The Donald though. Unlike Obama whose red line was many different shades thereof, The Donald interpreted red as being red (I think he likes to keep things simple) and launched 59 tomahawks at some airbase in Syria. FIFTY-NINE! (The Donald so enjoys the term “FIRED” that he just got a bit carried away!) That’s about FORTY million USD of US taxpayer money that exploded on a strip of tarmac in the middle of some dusty desert. Now the Russians and Iranians are accusing The Donald of crossing a red line. This is bound to confuse The Donald because he’s building a wall to prevent this criss-crossing behaviour. Eish….
Now that that’s clear let’s move on to this morning’s anecdote.
Big Love to All.
Hoddy X
Tradesmen in the UK.
Everyone has had to engage with a tradesman (I haven’t come across a trades-woman yet) of some description-or-tuther in the UK. And most likely it has been with mixed results – a bit like my golf game. It seems that the concept of providing a service on time and on budget and then receiving some recompense in return is a concept best reserved for actual aliens.
The final stage of our kitchen extension is getting the plumbing sorted. Our builder had organised for a plumber to come over the weekend to do the final connections. Mrs H had been waiting for this moment since time began and had already decamped most of the crockery, cutlery, utensils and other kitchen paraphernalia into the new kitchen cabinets in anticipation of the big day.
Tension mounts. Anticipation looms. And then on the day we get a text message from the plumber saying that he fell off a ladder, is now in A&E and doesn’t know when he will be able to attend to the job. Air of excitement evaporates; Mrs H’s eyebrow starts to twitch and naturally I start getting a bit nervous. So it’s onto the builder for Plan B.
Generally speaking my builder never has a plan B. Even Plan A is sketchy at best but he manages to rustle up an alternative plumber to come on short notice to pick up where A&E plumber fell off.
The appointed day arrives. Tension mounts. Anticipation looms. And in through the door walks a “plumber” who Mrs H said was geriatric and looked like serial killer to boot. First eyebrow twitch. I am pleased in a way that I wasn’t there because of what followed…
He walked into the new extension, took one look at what needed to be done, turned to Mrs H and said “I have a bad arm and will not be able to do this job”, walked out the front door with not a further word spoken, got into his van and drove off. Just like that….
Well the air of excitement did not just evaporate it exploded into a massive fireball and spread like an inferno through Streatham, up the Victoria line and down my ear hole in Oxford Circus where I was preparing for my day in the swamp. It’s fair to say that Mrs H was not happy.
Suffice to say that I then transferred some of that energy into my call with my builder to such an extent that a complete stranger needed to calm me down as I paced up-and-down Oxford Street. My builder lives in Kent; there was no need for mobile telephony – he could hear me from Central London!
Today we have Plumber No 3 on site. He appeared a mite more professional than the serial killer so here’s hoping!
OUT.
Pic of the Week
Love Amsterdam...
