February 2014


I was surprised by how physically and mentally hard moving one broken armchair from my mother’s house to the garage was.

She had fixed it by stuffing it with a feather pillow, made with iron chicken feathers, and then taping and nailing across the hole. The house is so full that getting the beggar on its side to get the pillow out was a test; then getting it to the front door involved shifting the sofa and the fridge; and having to keep twisting it one way, then another.

Just a few years ago I would have left the thing outside and called the local council to take it away. Now that is a paid for service, and I have to cost alternatives. So it will sit in the garage until a date unknown.

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I now have a loyalty card! Beer is good. I will not tell my Mike D’Arbo or Robinson’s Brewery stories, because I have told them before on here. Odd that I worry more about repeating a story on here than I do about repeating with people I drink with.

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This is the surface of the stock I boiled a duck in. The silver is water. The dark is fat.

My mother was brn in Finnish Karelia in 1921, 8 km form the Russian border. Finland lost Karelia after losing their war, and mother came to England in 1949.

I have always lived with my mother’s stories, one of the strongest is her tapeworm story; about the tapeworm she got during Finland’s war with the USSR.

The BBC programme in the title is fronted by Dr Michael Moseley, a mate of my school mate Hugh; and me an Bev met him at Hugh’s 50th birthday party in Bristol.

Ma’s tapeworm would have come from infected, and probably under cooked, meat; but may have come from something other than the relatively harmless cow. The life of some parasites is so complex that simply getting the wrong life stage could be the difference between losing weight and losing your liver and then your life!

Ma also has strong stories of bed bugs from the days she was a district nurse.

I also spent some of today sorting out Ma’s next district nurse visit via a company’s cretinous phone system. The woman I eventually talked to was very good; but I am sure the company was the same that now own the totally dead gmx mail server.


A spring of water
Can flood the growing
Can drown the shoot
To leave joy sank

Cracking rocks
Can splinter structure
Can free pollute
And break the bank

Yet

A spring of water
can quench the parching
Can fill the root
And swell the rank

And Healing oil
can smooth the bruising
Can make the land of corn accute
And make us glad we drank
From joy’s sweet fruit
And for that let’s thank

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