Radgie shop!

Crikey, it's a bit scary leaving the house these days. Well, it is if, like me, you pull your companions to the ground every time a door slams. The main focus of my fear in the mean streets of Arthurs Hill revolves around nipping to the shop for a pint (well, not actually a pint, obviously, but it sounds nicer doesn't it? All sort of post-war, pre-fab, new washing-machiney)of milk. My first encounter with the scary brothers who run the shop was them apparently having an argument, in front of me but not speaking to me, about whether one of them had called me 'sir' and therefore thought I was a man. It started 'that's a friggin lass, man!' and ended with them just shouting at each other along the lines of 'I never!' 'You did!' 'I friggin never!' Since that incident I have rarely entered the shop without hearing them shouting about something, almost invariably at each other or their hapless assistants. On their days off there's a rather camp man who goes for a much more bitchy plan of attack that I find more entertaining. Yesterday I heard him asking a young woman for proof of her age to buy cigarettes. The woman got another shopper to vouch for her: 'Aren't I old enough to buy tabs?!' 'She's old enough to smoke them n all. She's got three kids!' Shop man's response: 'that means nothing round here my love, they're dropping them at ten'.

Oh, in other news, I have a flickr. Have a look and see what happens when you try to do close-ups without an SLR. See: half a dead crab, half some dead crab's legs, half a ... you get the picture.

Football is everywhere

Am I old?

I already know the answer, I don't know why I'm asking. Nice reminders of impending agedness and death: peers reproducing. Unpleasant reminders: too numerous to mention.

Last night, while waiting for an as-it-happened-not-actually-that-interesting documentary about Lawrences Marks' dad dying in the Moorgate train crash, I caught some of a new sit-com starring Doogie Howser. That Doogie Howser was very much a grown-up could have been a little reminder of my advancing years in itself. However, I chose to ignore that hint. One of the sub-plots of the really rather poor comedy was that a couple (the girl of whom was Buffy the Vampire Slayer's best friend, Willow) were attenpting to act with greater maturity by turning down dancing in night-clubs in favour of wine-tasting parties and the like. At the denouement of this particularly tension-filled plot one of their friends had a word with Willow and said to her 'I mean, what's next? Scrabble nights?' I was stunned. Since when has Scrabble been synonymous with being a fuddy duddy? Was not lovely Mark from dictionary corner once world Scrabble champion? I'm sure he was, because I saw a photo in the paper - he had a natty board with yellow letters. Later on, the couple abandoned their wine-tasting and ran off to the club leaving their guests to show their true, ancient colours by playing Trivial Pursuits. Oh no, not TP too.

Still, not to worry John, the Scrabble night is still on on Tuesday. Bring some bottles of Hooch or something. Just so we know we've still got it.

Congratulations!

Lynsey and Chris have had their baby. And I have heroically managed to avoid buying them the most astonishing baby-gro in the world:

Maybe Fiona and Carl will buy it for the baby since they're hippies. Well, they both have long hair which is the same thing as being a hippy. Well, almost.

Anyway congratulations on the 'lush little lass'.