What I Did While I Wasn't Blogging
Bugger all, really.
I changed the sheets on the bed before social services took me into care to protect me from myself.
I de-fluffed the tumble drier. That was last Friday's project, gratifyingly completed before Jenni Murray's dulcet tones introduced Woman's Hour. As a regular listener, I now know a vast amount about how women's bodies work, or sometimes don't work, from puberty to the menopause and beyond.
Knowledge which is of no value to me whatsoever. It seems such a waste. I used to drive a car without knowing how it worked. This is like having a detailed knowledge of the internal combustion engine without driving a car.
On Saturday I emptied the vacuum cleaner. Before Clever Dick Dyson had his Eureka Moment, you only replaced the bag on your cleaner about once a year. Now you have to empty these bagless models after almost every bloody shake'n'vac round your living room. I don't consider that progress in today's time-poor lifestyles. As if that weren't bad enough, my machine has all kinds of pre-motor and post-motor filters which have to be cleaned or washed or replaced at great expense. Time to make the Eubank the must-have retro-gadget of the new century.
On Sunday I made a Bread Pudding. Not to be confused with Bread and Butter Pudding which is a different kettle of fish entirely. In fact I'd rather eat a kettle of raw fish than eat a Bread and Butter Pudding. But Bread Pudding is the food of the gods. The reason I hadn't made one for several years is that I become addicted to them and end up making one every day. They're slightly easier to make than a cake and lend themselves to endless improvisation in terms of what you add to them. I once compared Bread Pudding recipes with a supermarket check-out lady before realising that I'd turned into one of those infuriating old gits who holds up the rest of the queue. The full spectrum of human nature could be detected in those whispered "Oh, for fuck's sake"s and "Aaah, he probably doesn't get out much."
On Sunday evening I derived great pleasure from a small, whirring, battery-operated device. Personally, I would hold James Dyson in much higher esteem if he had invented the nasal hair trimmer. It can also be used on your ears. That's how I came to buy one, after nearly slicing my ear lobe off with a pair of nail scissors.
It has often been remarked that one of God's evil little jokes (or would be if He existed) is that when hair stops growing on the top of your head it begins sprouting from your ears and nostrils. Just as you can tell a horse's age by inspecting its teeth, you can tell a man's age by close scrutiny of his nostrils and ear cavities, though you shouldn't try this on a bald bloke with a pit bull terrier who just happens to be standing next to you in the pub. Anyway, I long ago vowed that my otherwise youthful looks would not be undermined by people glimpsing a miniature Kew Gardens colonising my nose and ears. At £9.99 (batteries not included) this single concession to vanity comes cheap.
But hair removal for me is only from the neck upwards. Not that I'd tell you if it were otherwise. I once saw Elton John announce on prime time television that he shaves his balls. And it struck me as odd that a man who was exercised enough by the absence of hair to sew a dead cat to his skull should be assiduously removing the hair from what, in this instance and with a nod to the spirit of the times, one might call his Civil Partnership Tackle.
But now I'm just rambling.
No, hang on. I must be blogging again!