An odd day

As if to share my horror at the return of The Scumbags next door, the day has started overcast and (for us) gloomy.  But the weather in this part of the world is seemingly irrepressible and the sun keeps breaking through and spoiling the effect of self-indulgent misery that the re-emergence of obnoxious neighbours engenders.

Any anger that I feel takes place to an orchestral backing of canine music.  From the piccolo upper register of the pop-eyed abortions that mince their way around on stick-thin limbs and produce sounds that remind me of an old sofa being moved on rusty wheels to those few Catalans who have real dogs which are capable of producing the basso profundo that matches the rumbling of the passing jets – I hate them all.  My especial loathing is reserved for the moronic staccato of the middle range animals all of which seem to imitate a badly played viola.  Where are distemper and hard pad when you need them!

My frequent looking at the BBC Sports web site has just revealed that the Welsh Captain, Warburton, has been red carded f19 minutes into the game for a dump tackle - something about which I have previously never heard.  This decision by Referee Alain Rolland (a name which sounds suspiciously French in origin) has been described as “hugely controversial” and “ridiculous”.  Looking on Twitter the tackle has been described as a “spear tackle” but the designation has been modified by the lack of the element of maliciousness in the tackle.

In spite of a spirited game from Wales, the red card really signalled the end of a realistic hope of winning.  We did miss a couple of kickable penalties and a possible conversion, but they didn’t happen and the French were able to win by a single point.  It was not a convincing win and I think that they have less than a rat’s chance in hell of winning the World Cup against either New Zealand or Australia in the final.  I will certainly not be supporting them.  So there.

Lunch was in the Flora Park Hotel in town and was the good value that we have come to expect from the place.  Yet again in a reversal of the natural order of things Toni drank more than I – my casera being merely lightly coloured by the addition of a splash of red wine! 

I enjoyed my lunch – which would not necessarily be something of note if it wasn’t for the fact that the infection all but took my appetite away, so its reappearance it something to be grateful for.  I did lose some weight which was good, but I fear that lost avoirdupois will be restored in double quick time.  I sometimes think that I can acquire calories through my skin!  Can you?

I have five more days on antibiotics and then my leg will have to be reassessed.  There is no disputing the fact that I do not feel as miserably ill as I did when the infection was, shall we say, raging.  But the swelling has not gone down fully, so I think that something else might have to be done.

The sun has been slipping behind clouds and then coyly peeking out again, so it is not really a beach-type day – but still one that tempts one out of doors.  Which is better than attempting to do the ironing which is still waiting.

Indeed, the ironing was left so long that it had to be rewashed (with special attention given to collars) and is now waiting for me in the machine.  It is probably just at the right dampness to take to the iron like nuclear power stations to the protesters who are marching through over 180 places world-wide after taking their inspiration from the original demonstrations in Spain.  And I think that last image got carried away with itself.  Still typing is not ironing – and that sounds about right to me!

But I did it anyway.  The windows are now festooned with white shirts which are still slightly damp, but at least have fewer creases than usual.  I cannot say that my ironing technique is anything approaching the scientific, but one has to admit that the feeling with which it is done makes the visceral hatred that I feel for Margaret Thatcher appear like mild irritation!

I have ironed eleven shirts and I am now bathed in sweat, feel as though I have moved house and am simmering with resentment.  I am sure that there are better ways to spend a Saturday evening.

Some men are spending their evening by singing loudly a capella somewhere in the neighbourhood.  Their music sounds like a cross between a low grade yodelling song (bad) and an army marching song (worse) but at least they have now stopped and allowed the dogs and the aeroplanes to re-establish their dominance of the sound scene of the area!

A party has now erupted into full throat while explosions rock our surroundings! This really is not a normal Saturday evening!  We, of course, ascribe all the extra noise to the unexpected arrival of The Scumbags. 

Paranoid? 

Us?