FROG BLOG

Went to Kingston-Upon-Thames yesterday (Saturday) with Georgie and Don. Drove there in Don's Mini. The two of them in the front and me somehow shoehorned in the rear. Went through Richmond Park. Lovely sunny afternoon. Herds of deer grazing. Stuck to the 20mph speed limit. Got overtaken by a cyclist. All Lycra and glistening calf muscles. Shouted "hooligan!". Don't think he heard but had he done so and wanted a punch-up, it would have taken me ages to prise myself out of our Dinky toy's rear end. Then shove his pump up his arse.

Arrived at the underground car park of John Lewis'. Had to queue to get in, it was that busy. Eventually managed to get out of the car. Headed for the lift in a not entirely upright position. Went up a couple of flights. Came to a door. On it was a sign saying 'automatic door' and, just below it, another saying 'push'. Brilliant. Fell about laughing. After much circling of dress and book departments, eventually reached our objective: the computer department.

After an hour's browsing we left. Dazed and confused. Empty handed. Too much to take in. Nerd's paradise. Luddite's nightmare.

Headed for PC World. Same story. Same result.

Went home.

Our collective conclusion is that I now return to the French backwoods with Georgie's computer thingamyjig box, unload loadsa photos and stuff onto it from my overstuffed laptop (these may not be the correct technical terms) and hope that it then starts behaving itself again. De-cyberconstipation, I call it. However, just in case this doesn't work, Don's kindly lending me her spare Compaq PC. Trouble is, I then have to set it up so I can go online; an apparently simple operation that may well be slightly beyond my limited capabilities.

So, no doubt much to everybody's relief, there's a strong possibility of this being my final posting. If so, many thanks to everyone who's been kind enough to read, and contribute to, this drivelly bloggeau.

Maybe now's the time to get that shower tiled.

And those paints out.

Au revoir.

Hah! Thought so. My computery thingie's no longer up to the task of blogging. I don't know the technical term for this cyberspace malaise but as far as I'm concerned the overworked and elderly hamster that powers the rusty wheel within my Apple laptop has finally run out of steam. He can just about handle emails but anything else is now way beyond his physical capabilities. Alas, the poor little blighter will have to be put out to grass.

This sad fact has finally been confirmed as I sit here at Georgie's laptop in downtown Putney where, unlike back home, access to this blogsite is as easy as the push of a Broadband button. Not only that but I can now also check out how my Daily Telegraph Fantasy Footy team's doing and make transfers..., er, if I knew Wednesday's codeword, which I don't.

Yup, the time has come to look into buying a new computer. So now the questions start and decisions have to be made. Should it be a PC or another Apple? A proper computer or another laptop? And should I buy in England or France? Will a French one have incomprehensible French language software installed? And what's my budget? Should I buy a good second-hand item on eBay? Blah, blah, blah.

Anyway, besides all that, by way of an update, Christian and the lads are really pissed off about Argentina beating France last Friday (wugger) and Scotland's magificent thrashing of the Frogs (footy) did little to restore lost pride (could take months for them to recover; years even), the sparkies have finished rewiring (you would not believe the sheer hell I went through living in a building site), the builders have finished the loft which looks absolutement magnifique (now I'm left with the simple task of painting it - well, it would be simple if I was twenty feet tall), my right wrist is slowly mending but I don't think it'll ever return to its former glory, I've got mozzy bites on my bumme and down one leg (but they could, of course, be flea bites), and I'm over here for another day's work progressing that on-going website design project. Landed yesterday. Stansted. Coached to Victoria, walked to Sloane Square, hopped on a Kings Road bus, hopped off at Putney Bridge about an hour later (terrible traffic), lovely evening so popped into Dukes Head and ordered a large gin and tonic with ice and lemon. Bit girly, I know. Cost £7.50. Yup £7.50. I really am from a different planet nowadays. Then legged it up to Roehampton to see if my old mates Kevin and Belinda were in. They were. So we nipped across the road to Kevin's Roehampton Sports Club for a few sherbets and a darned good chat. Excellent place. To namedrop, Pete Murray, the elderly DJ was there in his golfing gear (this reminded me of an old college game of awarding points for spotting famous people when we first came to London - Pete Murray's probably a single-pointer - once scored ten for Tommy Cooper), then Belinda finally and very kindly drove me to Georgie's at about tennish, some four hours late. Poor wee thing thought I'd got lost or snuffed it in a plane crash.

So there you go. Up to speed. Not a lot to report really. But at least with the aid of Georgie's super-fit hamster, I can. Come to think of it, I can also add a few pics.

How am I doing for time? 6.04 a.m. 7.04 a.m. back home. Ah here comes the first of the planes flying over Putney en route to Heathrow. A new day dawns. Time for a cuppa.

Longtemps pas de bloggeau.

Had the builders in y’know. And the electricians. So the place is a tip. Or, more accurately, a building site.

It’s a nightmare. Every evening for the past week I’ve had to shovel my bed out of whichever corner of the boudoir the lads have left it. Think I’m joking? Well you try letting a couple of sparkies loose with a massive power drill and a diamond-tipped, double-bladed, wiring router channeler in a three feet thick granite-walled house and you’ll soon find that a tarpaulin casually draped over your pit is no defence against leccy frogs on a mission.

Had to move the telly, phone and laptop under the stairs and then cover them with a plastic sheet, hence lack of bloggeau action. Laptop now temporarily rigged up in kitchen. Eagerly switched it on and got bugger all apart from five days’ worth of bigger willy and fake Rolex emails. Brill. Apparently the sparkies are here for another week or so. And I’m guessing the same for the builders who’re finishing off the loft. So roll on mid-September when peace and quiet will hopefully return.

I suppose when they’ve all packed up and gone, I’ll be able to sit down with a ringing in my ears (not used to noise up here in the backwoods; those drills really are noisy) and look back in amazement at how we got by for a couple of years in a house that had been wired by a manic depressive on a suicide mission who’d only installed two teeny weeny sockets. And the roof! Hah! Looked like a slag heap and acted like a colander. Ah, those gay days of placing buckets in the loft whenever it rained! Mind you, you should see that loft now. Mind-bogglingly brilliant. Costapacket but well worth it. And really glad we decided to keep it as one HUGE room instead of two or three normal sized ones. Not so much a wow factor, more a f-f-flippin’ ‘eck. Really looking forward to parking me pit up one end then walking through a couple of time zones in order to open a window on the opposite wall.

Week-end respite over. Now Monday morning. Better dash. Builders turning up in twenty minutes. Have to put the telly away, cover the bed, insert earplugs, etc., etc.