Where's the marzipan?

For as long as I can remember, part of the joy of eating a beautiful plump, moist Christmas Cake, was the topping. Not just icing, such as you might see on a mere wedding or birthday cake, no the Christmas icing was always served with a layer of exotic marzipan. Well if you came from the wilds of Northampton, then it was indeed exotica.
This sugary almond marvel, craved annually, was sufficiently sweet to be on my diabetic taboo, not to do list, along with Sherbet, Curly Wurlies and that old favourite the Easter Egg. Therefore my annual marzipan haul was minimalist to say the least.

The confection affection spread throughout Europe in the middle of the last millennia and was especially honed in the ancient Hanseatic trade ports of the Baltic...Lubeck and Konigsberg became synonymous with the treat. But over time, cities rise and fall, people migrate and tastes adapt.

Now Konigsberg is the Russian city of Kaliningrad, its beautiful city centre laid waste during the last war and it's Prussian marzipan endeavours are no more.

Meanwhile Endeavours of a different nature reached down under to NZ with Captain Cook. Following in his footsteps, after 170 years of migration, a nation of self sufficient chefs was formed. Baking became a national sport and now every cook in the land is proficient with Cake and it's decoration. Sadly my favourite Northern European almond topping was not a success here, replaced instead by plain icing, sugary candied peel and fruits. In fact the notion of heavy fruit cake has been displaced by the pavlova.

Not that the pavlova isn't a bad substitute for a fruit cake, with heaps of meringue, lashings of whipped cream, chunks of fruit and yet more cream.

These treats get lavished on us at Christmas, as we sizzle in the summer, eating al fresco on the beach or at the BBQ. A traditional Christmas cake might be too heavy after ham, sausages, salads and barbecued food. But something in me still wishes for that taste of almond promise, which is virtually unheard of down here. A treat which I am now unrestricted in enjoying!  I shall console myself with another helping of pav.

The Day of the Doctors

To understand time itself has taken fifty years of countless companions, ingenius inventions and distinctive Doctors galore. In order to unravel the intricate and infinite permutations of time has taken the Beeb many series, many aliens, and has kept the BBC prop department in enough foam and bottle tops to outshine even Blue Peter.
However those superior beings at the ADHB appointment scheduling cyber army have learned how to effortlessly travel through both time and space. Out of nowhere 2 separate appointments materialised in present day Earth on the Whangaparoa Peninsula. Both were for the same day, but with different consultants. Great! How convenient.
But alas I would have to master the skill of dual spatiality, as each were at different hospitals in Auckland, which would take many galaxies to get through.

I began to formulate a plan.....

I would need my trusty transport, the Petroleum Energy Unit's Gravitational Esprit Oscillating Turbo (or P.E.U.G.E.O.T. for short), some jelly babies, my sonic iphone screwdriver and all the customer service charm that the planet of Gallifrey can muster.
I turned to ask my trusty companion, Canine, of his opinion but he just sniffed and looked expectantly at the jelly babies.

I went to work, carefully opening the iphone sonic device and dialled in the number for ADHB appointments....I toggled with the various electronic security options and pressed hash for a real person, not an alien droid. Having explained and reasoned to the Great Brain on the sonic iphone, outlining the problems that simple beings have in simultaneously existing in two dimensions at once. The Great Brain considered and issued it's response.....
The second appointment would be moved to a later time on the same day.

With that I climbed into the P.E.U.G.E.O.T and set off for the first appointment with the Doctor.
Jelly baby anyone?

Double Dutch

They might break and they might fall but the girls from New York City don’t,

They just start again…..

Malcolm McLaren intrigued us with his 1983 homage to competitive skipping contests, though no Dutch were utilised in the recording of that song. Except perhaps those from Harlem or New Amsterdam.

But no more clogging up with this waffle (yes, I know they’re Belgian, but it fits). Meanwhile back down under I have been waiting for meetings and appointments with wise sages and medical chaps in preparation for a vein graft. Soon it seemed in vain, but clearly there has been some hard graft,  for I have been offered not, one, but two meets,  integers below graphed.

Both related to the graft, and both on the same day. 
Alas not at the same hospital, so some rapid transit will be required, not that I use the subway..

Spam's Off.

Following a fleeting visit to the clinical chaps for a drop in check up and a cup of hospital cappucino (?), my renal stats continue to excel, our kidney is fine and just dandy thank you for asking. Why yes, little pancreas is also performing like a star actor learning lines well and giving a superb performance.

Much like the customer service operative at our little local cinema the other day....allow me to explain:

The combination of a hot day and the premise of a good film enticed us into the local air conditioned cinema;

where dinner can be delivered to your seat during the show.
 Yes, on a plate, not just thrown at you in the dark....
In order to minimise the time spent queuing and ordering our evening repast I arrived early to confirmthe food order.

Fish and chips please, delivered to Row F, seats 5 and 6.

Sorry, the fish is off.

(Sensing a spot of opportunistic mischief making)
Well in that case can we have 2 fresh ones....

This was received about as well as Lady Gaga arriving at the Surbition Ladies Guild Knitting Festival.

We don't have any fish, its off the menu, the teenager helpfully explained, with a look of pure condescension.

Ha, perhaps someone should run to the supermarket I quipped. (It's a  five minute walk, or less than 2 minutes in a car)

The pimply one looked aghast. Not at the thought of actually going to the shops, but at the horror of having to deal with someone so unbelievably insensitive to modern catering practices..His mouth spoke words but his dagger eyes spoke volumes.

We're not allowed, it comes in a delivery truck every morning.

I'd better back off from this fishy assault and get back to thinking inside the box.
Ho hum then, 2 pizzas please, assuming they are not "off" too, of course.
I paid and shimmied out the door, pleased with my efforts at shaking the tree of corporate customer service and making this branch of platitudes wobble, if only ever so slightly.

Oh  and if you were drawn here by the Python reference, then I'm sorry, but Monty's off.

Get Fresh at the Weekend (Showing Out)

Ah the weekend, lazy mornings on bed, a relaxed breakfast, the bliss of not having to shave and time to relax with friends. Mel and her kin, Kim, meanwhile urged us to get fresh at the weekend, implying that during the week we ignore deodorant and ablutions?

Perhaps we are meant to spray “room fragrance” and Febreze around to make the place seem more alluring over the two days.

On Saturday we escaped to Browns Bay, a pleasant seaside suburb with shops, bakeries and cafes galore, in order to meet a friend of Glenn’s. I had yet to meet this friend in person, and human nature being what it is, set out to make a good impression.

With this in mind I selected a very eatable black forest gateau slice, complete with a decent fork to partition it and deliver it to my mouth in suave sophisticated gestures. A sensible latte arrived in a cup (with a handle, so not messing about there either). Our guest arrived and we stood up to greet her, like a gentleman would……..and then knocked the table, so coffee spilled over the brim and filled the saucer. Oops!

Nothing disturbs the intimacy of a cosy meeting than the clash of china against glass, and the froth of coffee teetering over the edge of it’s vessel like the waters of the Ruhr pushing against the Mohne Dam.

It was with a tangible sense of relief that we relocated to the beach, to catch some rays. (sun not manta). We chose a shady nook of trees overlooking the sand, waves lapping the shore, and a clear view of Rangitoto, our friendly local neighbourly volcano. Dormant and not very fresh.

After a good hour of more chat, a sparkling use of wit and a liberal dose of jokes and puns, I resolved to move the car, which was parked in a metered space.

My leg by now was quite numb, from bad (but sophisticated) posture and lack of movement, so I said my goodbyes, and stood up.

Except I didn’t stay up for long.

I suddenly had no support in my legs and fell backwards to the ground. Oh how very sophisticated I must have appeared.

“it’s all right, I’m OK, just numb….” And made to stand up again.
The sandy grass kissed me once more as I plummeted earthwards.

Hmm, time to shake the old leg to freshen up my circulation, and hastily make a respectable exit. I limped off like a late forties ex diabetic with organ transplants, collected the car and quickly drove off.

Thriller

Darkness falls across the land. 

The midnight hour is close at hand. 

Creatures crawl in search of treats. 

To terrorize your darkened streets...

We give grateful thanks to that annual US Halloween import: endless news items about things most "spooksome", all set to Michael Jackson's Thriller, for maximum chill factor.

However I do not appreciate that other American "holiday" (its just an evening!) custom, the Tricking and the Treating. The English of course are immune to that unexpected knock on the door, being raised as we are on a diet of Cherry Door knocking and Knock Down Ginger. (if you aren't aware of this childhood prank then do please rush to your local UK embassy or High Commission and knock on the door)

This year of course, we completely forgot to buy some sweet treats to throw at the little ghouls and goblins, which of course usually invites the wrath of the miserable parent waiting for their horrible tricksters at the end of the drive. Not wishing to encounter any damage to our garden this year I decided to lay low and ignore any knocks form the "other side".....

The first came at 4.30, as I lay low, surrounded by books and my ipad (no TV as that would alert them to my presence) The dogs barked and howled, and eventually after many taps the ghouls went away)
This was repeated every few minutes, as the procession of vile costumes continued apace.
Hark! My phone beeped.....Had they worked out how to trick or treat by text? Thankfully no it was Glenn.

"Shall I get some lollies?"

"YES!, I'm trapped in the house surrounded by the undead, all manner of foul demons, witches, warlocks, wolves, orcs, plus  Batman and a goat.

After yet more hidden spectral manifestations at the door, the lollies arrived and I felt sufficiently armed like a Victorian vicar replete with garlic and silver.

Time to succumb to the inevitable......Switch on the Pumpkin light

Aaaaarrrrgggghhh!

A B Rogan? Gosh!

Have a curry on a Friday Night? What a capital idea!

Grab a menu, peruse the vast array of wonderful exotica dishes, pickup the phone, and place the order.

A well tried and tested ritual across the globe. Well perhaps not in or Mumbai, or the province of Madhya Pradesh, unless of course you want to curry favour with the locals.But enough of the terrible pun jabs.

Sure enough we too joined the very British ritual last night, and ordered the obligatory Butter Chicken, Lamb Korma and not one garlic naan, but extravagantly opted for 2! Normally we share as they are so generously proportioned, like an elephant, and tear it two, a sort of Naan asplit.

In little over twenty minutes it was ready and I set off, eagerly expectant of the prize to be taken at the end of the drive. I parked my trusty steed in the car park and walked up to the magical palace of light that is the local Masala emporium.

I was met with wafts of Eastern spices, tandoors, and the sizzle of meats as the waiters delivered their game to the diners, eager maharajahs awaiting their feasts.

Greeted by the staff like an extra from the Jewel of the Crown,I was ushered to the reception to pay for our banquet. My card was charged and the food was furnished in front of me with a flourish and a smile.

As I turned to leave I saw the food rating on the wall.....
B for Butter Chicken.
Bother.

I wondered what catastrophe had befallen the normally A rated Masala? Had they perhaps been infested with a plague of marauding gourmet tigers?

Or had the meat delivery had been interrupted mid wicket and rained off? 
I pondered these thoughts as I drove home.

By this time I was a ravenous vulture, ready to devour anything, no matter what it's sauce.

However the spectre of unhealthy food handling processes still was there. My partner Glenn suggested it was more likely to do with their paperwork and written procedures, and a B was still safe. After 2 seconds of deliberating we promptly scoffed the lot.

Glad to report that the night passed without incident with no need to carry on up the Khyber.

Shattered Dreams

Disturbed nights perhaps from 1987 with Johnny Hates Jazz, an obviously Fats Domino phobic ensemble.

Now it was always stressed to  me as I was growing up, maturing from tiddler to tot, bookworm to swot, that the word hate was quite wrong.

To hate is a vile expression and too extreme, when really we mean to dislike, averse to, or just not in favour at the moment.

Johnny, whoever he may be, for it is not specified, has probably a mild dislike for jazz music, unfamiliar with the wide ranging musical genre. In fact to quote the Encarta of the new age, Wikipoodle, Jazz was described by one it’s leading proponents as 

“that it is music that includes qualities such as swing, improvising, group interaction, developing an 'individual voice', and being open to different musical possibilities” There you see, clear as mud, and how anyone can “hate” that, is beyond comprehension.

Just like the sad Johnny and his Gershwinphobia, I too have had shattered dreams. Dreams where in my weird world of medical dependence, outcomes would match or excel expectations. Take my recent brush with an angioplasty/groin grabbing operation, I was expecting that following my interrupted procedure a while back. I would be slotted in for surgery quite soon……

Alas it will probably be summertime….and the living is easy…when my appointment comes through. Oh and it wont be a simple rescheduled operation, that would be too easy. No the fish may be jumping but I will need to start from the bottom, to see the surgeon (to make sure I am OK to have the operation) Just like I did 6 weeks ago. Boohoo.

Now hush little darling don’t you cry, or you’ll upset Johnny again.

Where's the Party?

Asked Madonna in the collection of days that became universally acknowledged as 1986,when days were sunnier, the summers longer and global warming was something Mums did in the kitchen with a fried egg..

Whilst the Aged One was referring to glamourous nights out in Miami, Chicago and Puerto Rico, I on the other hand ventured to the bacchanalian hotspot that is Ponsonby. This licensed strip of wine bars, gastro pubs and high end fashion retail is Auckland’s answer to South Kensington, with perhaps slightly less dinosaurs and tube stations.

Off we swept, parking near to the venue, with the intent of swishing in and making an entrance, waving and greeting various acquaintances as one would long lost celebrities. The reality was somewhat different, as we squeezed and pushed our way in through the patrons to the bar. We joined some friends and tried shouting our “hulloos” over the music…

No Kylie, Madonna, or anything more vintage than August 2013, but a heavy fusion of drums and wails in Icelandic, or Welsh, or Gujarati…

The usual international party folk were there; stunning visions crafted from the pages of Vogue or Chanel, property investors from the Far East, the odd racing car driver (yes really), and even Mr and Mrs "Even More Normal Than We Were", from Late 80's Essex, if their hair was to be believed. We strained to hear each other over the pulsating beats as we circulated, but I soon learnt how to communicate using the international language of dog owners…

Really? What kind...2 Papillons?

How lovely/cute/brave etc    (delete and insert appropriate doggy adjective)

Papillons not withstanding, it was time to usher in the cake…….to welcome in our host’s 40^th year. Young Bastard.

Following the usual planned “surprise” speeches and gift opening (Oooohs and Arrhhhs), we soon returned to our collective bonhomie.

As our group was finally entertained the racing car driver, we tried not to gasp at his outlandish tales of daredevil shenanigans, with both petrol and diesel variants, whilst I decided to pretend I didn't drive, and certainly not a Peugeot 207 GTi with a GB sticker on it.

Finally we ebbed away into the distance, seduced by the time and the fresh air entering by the now clear doorway.....

It then dawned on me as we slowly walked back to the car, I had really enjoyed myself, good company, thumping music, wild atmosphere, even if we didn't have a racing car.

Not bad for a Tuesday lunchtime.

Harry Potter and The Order of the Phoenix

Of course the phoenix orders Lobster Thermidore followed by a flaming plum pudding .

Except this metaphorical phoenix would be a classic phoenix and perform all the expected phoenixy things.

Like bursting into flame at the end of its life and then being born again from the ashes

In my world however, for phoenix read angioplasty.

After the abrupt ending during my vein surgery last week, I mistakenly assumed that my operation would simply be rescheduled. In my naïve appraisal of the facts, the angioplasty would be rebooked as a vein graft procedure. Those of you more medically aware, especially in surgical operations of the groin and vein, will no doubt be irritatingly shouting at the computer “femoral-femoral surgical revascularisation”, but then I'm certainly not the sort who would google a specific medical term just to impress.

Naturally when the letter arrived from the place where a lot of doctors and nurses work together with an admin and support base, or "hospital", then I was expecting to see a new surgery date. After all I had already been examined, poked, probed, scanned, and cardio tested by the vascular team already.

However as if by magic the letter had vanished and been replaced by one referring me to a vascular consultant. Just simply that; no op or pre op, just a full stop. Back to the very first chapter.

The whole angioplasty trick had ceased, and like a magnificently plumed phoenix it had combusted and without so much as a hey presto, vanished.

I shall wait patiently for an operation to rise again from the ashes, Phoenix's orders.

Bravo...Great Performance...Disappointing...Boo!

                                        

I felt a bit of a Muppet last week at the hospital.

The day dawned early, and I avoided any breakfast as instructed in the appointment letter. Having swallowed my morning medications dry, I was left with a bitter taste, which was nothing compared to what was to come.

The hospital wing resembled an airport, with queues of expectant folk with overnight bags, shopping and cafeteria food, all seated in differing waiting areas, with their minds slavishly following the small TV monitors housed at an untouchable angle.

I joined the huddle, as if in line for a jet to Fiji or Malaga…….

My destination, however, involved nakedness, a hospital gown plus a lot of peering and prodding at my groin, as I was wheeled into the theatre. 

Soon I was woozy from the anaesthetic, drifting until I was aware of a medical exclamation and a sudden conclave huddled around me.

Looking at his monitor the surgeon checked with his colleague, who checked the screen. Then they checked Wikipedia. (Actually they probably didn't)

In hindsight I suspect they were checking the date of the MRI scans, which showed the extent of my fossilisation  in January. Then I was sufficiently calcified to warrant surgery. However since that Jurassic period times have changed, and my femoral artery is now so filled with hard chalk, that my bone resembles that of a triceratops.

Looming over me. The surgeon took off his mask and said that the calcium  had now completely blocked the top of my artery, and so a stent was not possible. Instead a bypass would have to be grafted on, to allow the cardiac juices to flow. Due to the jolly old immune system, it had to be a deceased donor graft, and not plastic. These veins are “harvested” at the same time that organs are retrieved, and amazingly they can stay active and fresh for about a week!

I was whisked out of the theatre, and back to the ward to recover from my invasive but ultimately unsuccessful procedure. Following an enforced stay I eventually went home to recover.

It looks like I had chalked up yet another medical milestone. Indeed I was yet again on a transplant list, waiting for the call.

Lets hope I don’t have to wait in vain.

Friends

Back in the day Shalamar served us up a whole plateful of disco jollies, and in 1982 released the Friends album. This was a real piece of vinyl, or cassette, not some mirrored scratched CD or the ethereal intangible digital download. I myself made friends with the cassette, and it happily went with me on my travels with my Walkman. Not that I had an actual Walkman, mind you. Being rather unfashionable until at least 1983, I opted for a cheaper Dixons nowhere near equivalent. Off I bopped into the sunset with my fellow schoolfriends dreaming of the real thing.....

Press FF 30 years and both friends and music can be virtual. With a wealth  of shared experiences that thread people together. Instant messaging and chat options, horrifyingly now considered the norm, stretch out conversations to days, even weeks, all prompted by the red flag of excitement that appears and demands an instant response. Like an aggressive child, this notification (in red, to enhance it’s importance)stamps it’s feet and cries out to be attended to NOW, lest the beast grows angry.

I recently encountered a new phenomenon, the strange experience of being “unfriended”. I didn’t notice at first, not being very good with numbers. You should see me wielding a 4 about, makes a terrible mess.

After a while I realised someone was missing, but failed to recall who it was. Who might I have offended? Who would take exception to my odd humour?

I wracked my mind, and literally spent 7 minutes reasoning with myself and the FB friend list.

Finally I found them, or rather did not find them, for they were absent. This was most peculiar, as their partner was online as usual, posting, liking, and commenting on my recent posts.

My mind considered the correct social networking etiquette. What was the right response to this apparent effrontery? Should I send a message to my erstwhile friend, or perhaps post on their partners timeline? That might be worse and upset them both, I reasoned. What a dilemma.....

                                                                     ?

 Eventually a message was sent, but no notification bounced back. The minutes turned to hours, then later that day, the next day, and into infinity and beyond, but it seemed that the end of the tape had been reached.

But then a message appeared, just like a cassette on auto reverse…and there it is!  All the paranoia and conspiracy theories were unfounded. My friend (and yes they are a tangible entity, and we have spent many nights wassailing and carousing in the past) had deleted their FB account due to a suspected hacking. What a relief, it wasn't me......

Unhindered by doubt, our virtual lives continue apace, mutually  liking and commenting, posting cat pictures with a witty refrain.

Has this anything to do with my impending surgery this week? No. However I might consider “friending” the surgical team, and “liking” my leg so that I can get constant updates of the procedure through facebook.

Schrodinger's Appointment

Recently we all celebrated the birthday of the celebrated Austrian physical theorist (Well Google did, so that must mean everyone, as everyone uses Google, bar Apple fanatics and some obscure tribes of the Brazilian rainforest). Schrodinger became renowned  for his theory regarding the possible demise of  a hypothetical cat in a tense nuclear standoff reminiscent of the cold war. The moggie's very existence hung on a random (and therefore unguessable) fatal event that may or may not occur, resulting in the concluding logic that the cat could be both dead or alive at the same time.
It could be argued that any cat stuck in a box would make such noise and caffufflement, that it’s continued existence would be in no doubt. Or perhaps it would expire from suffocation anyway?

The same can be said of my previous hospital appointment. It has been cancelled and rescheduled twice, as if placed in the diary by some mad scientist. 

The continued existence of my impending surgery could have been organised by Herr Schrodinger himself. It has been moved twice now, and a further appointment has been postponed until a later date.
It may or may not take place. In physical terms the appointment exists, both in paper and in the "system", but it is as likely to be cancelled as it is likely to proceed. The probability suggests that it will be cancelled, like the previous two. Or the procedure will proceed.

I shall await both the probable and improbable outcomes. The logical conclusion to this query is that I bring along my own cat to the appointment, and see if it gets cancelled. The certain survival of a real cat at the appointment will influence the probability somewhat. Or perhaps some other random unforeseeable event will occur and disrupt both the medical staff, the cat and myself.

Arrival

Most people have a pretty positive opinion about the art of arriving. Think of glamourous international travel, cosmopolitan adventurers decanting from luxury trains, Suave Alan Whicker posing in some far flung Arab souk  The eager expectation of a birthday, anniversary or seasonal holiday, or the coming of a new film release, book.or favourite TV episode all bring the promise of feeling happy. 

Of course arrival can also turn to departure or disappointment, leaving a dark void and sadness.

Whereas sadness can both arrive and depart, departures can bring gladness, sadness can bring departure, arrivals can be accompanied by sadness and Sadeness arrived with Enigma.

It was therefore with a sense of sadness that on the day before my "chalky vein procedure", that sickness arrived, arresting my departure. A mild rumbling in the lower abdomen shortly after midnight was a sign that unpleasantness was about to arrive. 

That unexpected arrival resulted in my being somewhat flustered, and anxious. (Anxiety of course also being a precursor to departure and arrival). Anxious that I should get better soon or else miss the minor surgery at the hospital the next day. Alas short term improvement failed to turn up., and it was under a cloud of sadness that I called the hospital and cancelled the booking. This was met by understanding, sympathy and a small dose of irritation, no doubt from a dread of the additional paperwork.

The operation departed without me, and a slight melancholy descended, but this was soon dispersed with the arrival of a fresh new sparking appointment for next week.

That arrival did much to lift up my spirits

General De Gaulle?

Bon jour, Bon nuit, Bon Appetit...as they probably don't say in France.
We pay a fleeting phonetic reference to De Gaulle, President of the Fifth French Republic, co founder of the EEC, and delightfully French.

Famous oddities include objecting to the UK joining the Common Market (boo hiss), having a specially made Citroen enlarged for his enormous frame, and having a penchant for cheese and food in general....a sort of fromage homage.

De Gaulle, also rhymes with Da Goal, which is appropriate this week as I come staggering out from a renal checkup this morning with a clear set of them going forward. Goals, not French Presidents.

My bloods are good, my kidney function excellent, blood sugar levels  perfect, and my weight is......

Oops, it has risen since the onset of winter. Like a particularly desirable cuddly squirrel, I have been storing winter treats around my abode, carefully hidden from the prying eyes of others. The secret squirrel in me then forages around to make his habitat as warm and inviting as possible during this cold period, which in New Zealand stretches from June to August. Exercise has also notably slowed down to a mere heartbeat, no doubt to conserve fat and reserves, not to mention dignity for the months ahead. How galling..

Which of course is rather dim of me, as I should be taking regular exercise and eating a well balanced diet, in fact my previous diabetic diet was actually a very good diet. Maintaining an optimum intake of differing food groups, nutrients and a limitation of too much fat and sugar, is actually the best way to go!

Therefore my first three goals are to replace sugar in my drinks, cut out bread and replace with rice cakes, and start to exercise again.

Au revoir les croissants et les baguette! Rien de sucre s'il vous plait.

And then three come along at once.

The proverbial London Bus, that music hall cliche of reliability and punctuality, has evolved somewhat from the halcyon days when I was in residence there. From iconic familiarity, much derided and adored, to replacement by clunky enclosed vehicular boxes without a free verandah. really no verandah? The designers went out of their way to alienate half the capital, both the reliant commuter and every other road user.
But hark changes are afoot.

Replete with a stonkingly huge shiny new platform, to waft your bags and gesticulate at tourists and parking wardens alike. Or was that just my morning carriage to work?

Alas gone are the days of the travelcard, the grumpy looks of fellow passengers, the snarls and suspicion as bags are heaved on board, loud stereos that are anything but personal...
Instead I drive my road hogging, single person (with three seats to spare), filled with shopping, bluetooth stereo, handsfree GTi to work every day, to park in my capacious free space.

Heathwise, just like the cliche, things have arrived in threes..... hospital appointments that is.

A visit to the renal team for a three monthly checkup and WOF/MOT, a visit for some more cardiological testing (presumably to see if I'm still alive), and best news of all, a stay overnight for a"procedure", to clear the blocked chalky arteries I mentioned last week.

I will be a freshly reinvented model, a few dings to my paintwork, but on the whole a remarkable much loved survivor from the sixties..... Just the ticket.