The state electricity company has been changing some bits on a - what is the collective noun for pylons? - a march of serious pylons that pass close by Casa Combo. This involved the use of a helicopter and a lot of noise and blokes swinging around from the top of said pylons on impossibly slim ropes without a care in the world. I got the willies just looking at them. Interestingly, I spoke to some of the climbing gang after they had finished this section and they all have the thickest accents from the Alto Adige/Trentino region.....where the Dolomites are! Climbing must be in their DNA.
Apologies for not having written for a while about drinking. To be honest I have been pouring so much down my fat chops lately that even I feel embarassed at my levels of consumption. Last Wednesday - just as a random example - I had two small 33cl bottles of Europiss at around 5pm; at six I fixed a Martini Rosso for Mrs Combo and but I customised mine with a decent slug of Beefeater, just to give it some backbone. With dinner I drank a bottle of Cabernet Franc, minus one glass for the good lady wife, bless 'er; after she had tootled off to bed I slunk down to the cellar and as quietly as possible drew off a couple of big (alright, huge) glasses of Barbera d'Asti from my excellent bag in box selection. I rounded off this tranquil evening with two sodding great grappas. The only possible chink of hope for me is that the spirits I drink are clear; never really been one for whisky or brandy. And I hardly ever drink at lunchtime, honest. But I'm clutching at straws, aren't I?
16 comments:
Ron, with you in spirit Poppet. My former travelling companion took me out for some sport last night; just playing with me as usual. Three cans 1664, ice cold from her large refrigerator, two bottles of a pleasing white something or other with a Ruby Murray next door, three, possibly four, pints Czech lager at the smart yet raucous High Road House in Chiswick 'til the small hours, then back to hers to empty the frig. Having had her fun, she threw me out at about half two this morning. Sorry Alice, but it's best you know now.
You told me you were struggling with some old drawers you bastard! I sat here all night, worried sick that you couldn't get them to fit properly and you'd lost your touch. I'd cooked you your favourite, well balanced, meal as well. It's now in the dog, who pines for you. 1664 eh? Does that mean she looks 16 from the back and 64 from the front?
What a lovely photo, Mr Combo. I have always loved choppers although, as a mature woman, I do prefer the bigger ones. I find them so much more comfortable.
To my fans. There is no mrs fibonacci, there never has been a mrs fibonacci. The mrs fibonacci listed above is perpetrating a cruel hoax and you are to pay no attention. At some point a mrs fibonacci may spring into view, fully formed and ready to join me in my world of carpentry but for now I wander as free as air, as thin air; with nought but a song in my heart and my Reader's Digest Home Maintenance Manual for company.
There's no future Mrs.Ashley now either, after my appalling behaviour on Friday night.
So, does that mean that me and my little Fanuc might come back into your life, Fred?
You're right there's no 'Mrs Fibonacci' matey boy, because you are chucked. 32 years I've put up with your womanising. Well. Your clothes, if that is what you call them, are in a bin liner in the yard next to those broken scaffold planks you for some reason insist on keeping. When you pick them up don't bother to knock.
Ah, now this makes sense. A woman bearing a striking resemblance to 'mrs fibonacci' has been forcibly ejected from our delightful 1933 apartment block several times over the last month. I am fortunate to be protected from obsessives like this by my retinue of liveried staff. Whilst flattering to have one's very own stalker it does get a little wearing, especially for my long suffering neighbours. After all, the constant intrusion from the paparazzi is bad enough, without some psycho wandering around claiming to be my one true love "because of the way you drew your curtains last night" (this found scribbled on an opened out fag packet and shoved through my letterbox).
Peter: sorry you blew it. Try flowers; failing that you may find a Mercedes SL500 with all the toys might swing it.
ps Alice, I shall be waiting in the usual place. If the Fanuc's an ARCmate then by all means bring it along; I've got the goggles.
Women eh?
Good lord Fred, how racy your life is! When you said that Mrs Fibonacci was a hoax, I thought you meant she was someone impersonating a woman! Now THAT is strange...why would anyone do that?
Alice, Camilla, Ron, Peter, Jon, Toby, Diplo, Afa, Cindy, All. As the switch is about to be flicked at CERN, and the Large Hadron Collider bursts into life for the briefest measurable amount of time I want to take this opportunity to say goodbye. Soon we will not only cease to exist, but, in a billionth of a billionth of a billionth of a second, we will never have existed; an interesting construct.
Will I dream?
Very profound - and moving, Fred.
All of a sudden the blogosphere is being turned inside out - a wife who isn't a wife, Camilla delivering her most important double entendre yet and Mr A doing something unmentionable enough to cause serious domestic disharmony. Maybe the scientific particle accelerator johnnies will bring things to a natural conclusion after all..."be careful with that, you'll have someone's eye out with it" as my mum used to say - it should be written on their Rowland Emett style device. If they've done their best, Fred, all is still not well and we're here. If not goodbye and thankyou for the fish.
Now look here Chaps, when Sqdn Cmdr Tibbets opened the doors on Enola Gay, we all thought it was the end of the world. But it wasn't, so damned if I can see how someone driving into Hadrian's Wall will end the world. Nor where Naomi Campbell fits into it all. Bashing Fritz in '44 was so much easier.
Entschuldigung Freunden. Haben sie eine Euro fur der electrische-meter im der Grosse Hadron Collider?
Blimey Ron, better get the black-out curtains up.
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