Evening traffic report with Neasden Postlethwaite.
Dear snot-coloured Peugeot-pilot.
As it happens, that bit of road is wide enough for two vehicles + parked cars. The damage to my wing-mirror will cost twenty notes to fix if I go for SAAB parts, or a fiver for pattern bits off Ebay. Judging by the amount of colour-matched plastic shards on the road, I suspect fixing your shitbox will cost considerably more. That is because I have a proper car and you have some terrible French chicken shed made from tinfoil and chewed-up bus tickets. The next time you have an accident, it'll likely be a proper one and you'll have to stop because your chicken shed will have folded up like a wet newspaper.
Boomshanka, JH-R.
PS. [Nelson] Ha-ha! [/Nelson]
Anyway. [/Clarkson]
Even though our carriageway was basically empty, some hapless Disco-captain had managed to park his hateful vehicle on its roof in the centre lane, just behind the vast mobile boghouse that was on its side in the first two lanes. Yes, it may be a Solihull-built 4wd, but if the boghouse it's towing is bigger and starts to fishtail, it's earth-sky-earth-sky-hospital time.
Caravans, right? They're just a shit design. I fondly imagine that the sensible arrangement would be to have an axle at the rear and an articulated axle at the front, but that would make them a bugger to reverse. I guess the upside of that would be making it illegal to keep one unless you can reverse it round a corner. (I never learned that skill, sadly, but they teach it at ag. college.)
Anyway anyway.
Between those two events, I spent part of the afternoon fondling someone's plums.
And their damsons.
It was jolly nice.
Mum's aunt (I think) keeps a small farm on the Boddington side of Staverton. The orchard is old and filled with random English varieties of fruit, and now I have several containers of same that I don't know what to do with yet. In the old days, we had a pantry filled with dusty jamjars and a three-hole AGA with which to boil up the produce. Now I live somewhere tiresomely modern with shops, not so much.
I am also compelled to report that Aunt Joy's loganberry wine really does slide down very well. Good job I only had a small tumbler.
"Have you had home-made before, John? Because I don't like to give it to those as hasn't; they don't have the taste for it and'll get a bit silly."
As it happens, that bit of road is wide enough for two vehicles + parked cars. The damage to my wing-mirror will cost twenty notes to fix if I go for SAAB parts, or a fiver for pattern bits off Ebay. Judging by the amount of colour-matched plastic shards on the road, I suspect fixing your shitbox will cost considerably more. That is because I have a proper car and you have some terrible French chicken shed made from tinfoil and chewed-up bus tickets. The next time you have an accident, it'll likely be a proper one and you'll have to stop because your chicken shed will have folded up like a wet newspaper.
Boomshanka, JH-R.
PS. [Nelson] Ha-ha! [/Nelson]
Anyway. [/Clarkson]
Even though our carriageway was basically empty, some hapless Disco-captain had managed to park his hateful vehicle on its roof in the centre lane, just behind the vast mobile boghouse that was on its side in the first two lanes. Yes, it may be a Solihull-built 4wd, but if the boghouse it's towing is bigger and starts to fishtail, it's earth-sky-earth-sky-hospital time.
Caravans, right? They're just a shit design. I fondly imagine that the sensible arrangement would be to have an axle at the rear and an articulated axle at the front, but that would make them a bugger to reverse. I guess the upside of that would be making it illegal to keep one unless you can reverse it round a corner. (I never learned that skill, sadly, but they teach it at ag. college.)
Anyway anyway.
Between those two events, I spent part of the afternoon fondling someone's plums.
And their damsons.
It was jolly nice.
Mum's aunt (I think) keeps a small farm on the Boddington side of Staverton. The orchard is old and filled with random English varieties of fruit, and now I have several containers of same that I don't know what to do with yet. In the old days, we had a pantry filled with dusty jamjars and a three-hole AGA with which to boil up the produce. Now I live somewhere tiresomely modern with shops, not so much.
I am also compelled to report that Aunt Joy's loganberry wine really does slide down very well. Good job I only had a small tumbler.
"Have you had home-made before, John? Because I don't like to give it to those as hasn't; they don't have the taste for it and'll get a bit silly."