Shmumbleweed

Enough of the Tumbleweed Where's hhn's Post comments please. (If you six like it so much, why don't you get a few other chuffers to read it?) I've been busy - which of course articulates that Anyone Who Has Time To Blog Regularly Doesn't Have Anything Of Interest To Say equation.

What with going to Birmingham, and while there managing to miss Crufts by a day but procure an inflatable fruit carrier and a purple 99 Flake baseball cap for mrs househusbandnot, and spying a Tibetan monk in Pizza Express, and interviewing an MP, and trying to avoid two Russian men wrestling in the changing rooms at my gym (I went to the gym late the other night, around nine. It is v different at that time of the evening. Gone are all my usual friendly pals, and gym bunnies and smiley gym attendants. At that time in the evening the gym is peopled by determined bankers and bankeresses who have no time for the fruitlings of the six to eight o'clock crowd. They have just re-schemed a small Latin American country debt, or bought Pret A Manger, or funded the Swiss Grand Prix, and are at the gym to WORK OUT. And the Russian wrestlers too.), seeing The Catholic Building Society on the high street - what is all that about?, and overhearing a girl on the bus boasting that Paul Weller was going to DJ at her birthday party (What a terrible idea . "All the ladies say You Are Better Looking Than Bruce Foxton. All the men say We Love Your Feathered Perm. Right here's a Faces track that should get you jumping."), and dreading going to a meeting where I knew I was going to bump into a hardline lesbian I know and worrying about whether or not I should shake her hand or peck her on the cheek (In the end, she elected to give me a sort of hand/fist sort of hand shake, which made my efforts to bond with the Masai veritably elegant.), and deciding that anything other than a plain black or white coffee should be the norm in coffee shops now (I waited behind a woman in a coffee shop in Birmingham, and all that extra shot soya milk grande vente polar bear skinny latte bollox she was ordering just sounds ridiculous. I should have realised sooner in my life.), and marvelling that Madame B has managed to dig up a more offensive word than the C word, and spending a whole day standing up, and swimming two miles last night (I Rock.), and having a chat with mrs hhn about what songs we would want played at our respective funerals, and buying an egg poacher that you can use in the microwave, and wondering if it was mrs hhn or a squirrel or mrs hhn dressed as a squirrel or a squirrel dressed as mrs hhn that has entirely destroyed one of the small bay trees on our balcony, and being tricked by mrs hhn into offering to go downstairs to the loony to see if she will let me into her flat to read our gas meter, and preparing for an evening with The Waunch, and watching paint dry (which incidentally was the topic of one of the very first hhn posts way back when), and...

WARNING THIS POST HAS BEEN TERMINATED DUE TO IT BEING OF NO INTEREST TO ANYONE OTHER THAN THE AUTHOR