Another hot week in Weybridge, and Argos has back-ordered my air-conditioner. Too bad, really, as I would have more than paid for it the first night with all the people who booked a slot on the floor in my lounge. I’m going to store all 72 air mattresses I borrowed in the garage.
I have thought of another money-making scheme. In a casual conversation, I learned that Isopropyl Alcohol is NOT sold over the counter here. It requires a prescription, and costs over 10 quid a bottle. Mary has been duly instructed to ditch some of the "Leechy-catching" outfits she was bringing and bring three or four cases of alcohol from Walgreen’s ($.89 per bottle). Note to Mary: Just tell Immigration you have a phobia about foreign toilet seats. Additional note to Mary: Immigration is VERY suspicious of Americans. They may ask why you’ve visited England twice in two years. Just tell them you’re a gourmand and can’t get enough English cuisine.
Obviously, it’s not the "done thing" here to discuss earning money so crassly. But I have a particular use in mind for the spare cash, but I can’t tell you. Oh…I guess I can. Blogs are private, aren’t they? I’m saving up to hire Robbie Lee for a gig. A private one…in my garden…with Robbie just wearing his guitar.
"Normal" friend Mary’s visit is getting closer. Or as I refer to her..Scary Fairy. In addition to her request to see 73 more castles and cathedrals, we’re off to Scotland to do a hands on study of Men in Kilts. Anthropology has always been a hobby of Mary’s. There is also the huge party Terry and Pinkie are hosting for her, albeit they refer to it as "the Last Bank Holiday Party After Jeano stayed." And the obligatory jaunt to the theatre in London. I’m sure Mary will do some "guest" blogging whilst she’s here.
Otherwise, it’s business as usual here, with visits from my friends, meeting friends for: a) coffee; b) lunch; c) dinner; d) drinkies. Next week is my birthday, and several Dos are planned, so I’m sure I’ll have lots to write about.
I got lots of mail on the Cowardly Ex-Friend blog. Gee, I wish I’d thought of some of those responses to email back. Unfortunately, she doesn’t do emails, except, obviously, for the one where she didn’t have the mettle to confront me directly. My particular favorite was from my friend, Tombstones, who advised sending an email stating "Your "Dear John" email is in front of me in the smallest room in my house (the bathroom). Soon, it will be behind me,"
Second place goes to Cousin-by-marriage John, who sent a treatise on "Negative People". I’m reproducing it here.
This is something to think about when negative people are doing their best to rain on your parade. So remember this story the next time someone who knows nothing and cares less tries to make your life miserable.
A woman was at her hairdresser’s getting her hair styled for a trip to
Rome with her husband. She mentioned the trip to the hairdresser, who
responded: "Rome?
Why would anyone want to go there? It’s crowded and dirty. You’re
crazy to go to Rome. So, how are you getting there?"
"We’re taking Continental," was the reply. "We got a great rate!"
"Continental?" exclaimed the hairdresser. "That’s a terrible airline.
Their planes are old, their flight attendants are rude, and they’re always late.
So, where are you staying in Rome?"
"We’ll be at this exclusive little place over on Rome’s Tiber River called Teste."
"Don’t go any further. I know that place. Everybody thinks its going
to be something special and exclusive, but it’s really a dump, the worst hotel in the city! The rooms are small, the service is surly and they’re overpriced.
So, whatcha’ doing when you get there?"
"We’re going to go to see the Vatican and we hope to see the Pope."
"That’s rich," laughed the hairdresser. "You and a million other
people trying to see him. He’ll look the size of an ant. Boy, good luck on this lousy trip of yours. You’re going to need it."
A month later the woman again came in again to get her hair done. The hairdresser asked her about her trip to Rome.
"It was wonderful," explained the woman, "not only were we on time in one of Continental’s brand new planes, but it was overbooked and they bumped us up to first class. The food and wine were wonderful, and I had a handsome 28-year-old steward who waited on me hand and foot.
And the hotel was great! They’d just finished a $5 million remodeling
job and now it’s a jewel, the finest hotel in the city. They, too, were overbooked so they apologized and gave us their owner’s suite at no extra charge!"
"Well," muttered the hairdresser, "that’s all well and good, but I know you didn’t get to see the Pope."
"Actually, we were quite lucky, because as we toured the Vatican, a Swiss Guard tapped me on the shoulder, and explained that the Pope likes to meet some of the visitors, and if I’d be so kind as to step into his private room and wait, the Pope would personally greet me.
Sure enough, five minutes later, the Pope walked through the door and shook my hand! I knelt down and he spoke a few words to me."
"Oh really! What’d he say?"
He said: "Where’d you get that shitty hairdo?
Oh, to be in England 