The Wrestlers reopened today after a facelift. The pool table has gone, the bar’s a bit shorter, and the floor’s now level – tiles rather than lino; yea, even unto the gents. The dusty old beer bottles perched on shelves throughout the bar have gone, but we think they might sneak back. The fireplace is refurbished, and all of Tom’s running paraphernalia has been cleared away (not for long, I expect). The multi-coloured menus are now plain old blackboards (much easier to maintain, and you can now apparently order “Prawn chill”). Old photos for the nostalgic.
The official IXI/SCO/Tarantella bench has disappeared. That’s what happens when you lay off the office I guess. In its place, standard chairs and tables. Tom can now squeeze in quite a few more people.
The food hasn’t changed.
Last night we celebrated Lynda’s 30th birthday with several dozen of her closest friends.
In a weak (OK, drunk) moment ages ago I agreed to be the official photographer, so most of the photos are of people I don’t know. For more photos of the usual suspects, see Andy Heckford’s new site. (Link fixed — thanks Andy)
Silver is the new red.
I’d had the old car for almost exactly eight years. I now get to sample the delights of air conditioning, a CD player, electric this that and the other, remote central locking, and other things that work…
(Peugeot 206 S.)
Wow, animation is annoying isn’t it?
Emerging earlier today from the shopper’s paradise that is Boots, I took off my backpack to shove some stuff into it. It slipped in my hand, and I instinctively grabbed. Ow, I thought.
My right thumbnail had gouged into the cuticle-area skin of the third finger on my left hand, leaving a pink, fleshy area roughly the shape and size of Belgium. Ow, I thought again.
I bled my way into Superdrug to buy some plasters. (I’d just got out of a long queue in Boots.) The girl on the till helpfully sniggered as I handed over a crisp new fiver with bloody hands.
Thence to Borders, where I bled my way to Starbucks to obtain today’s magic toilet code (4321, fact fans), and tried not to stain the toilet door as I keyed it in. (They’ve had vandalism problems, so they lock the doors now. They’ll happily give the code to any T, D or H though.)
After washing off the blood and wrapping some toilet paper temporarily around Belgium, I used my remaining fingers to try to find my way into the plastic-wrapped plasters. “Simply peel back”, it claimed, giving no indication of where you peel back from. I eventually located a millimetre overlap and forced my way into the packaging.
Suitably plastered I then let an OAP into the gents, who’d been scrabbling away at the door unable to figure out how to get in. We agreed it was a stupid system.
How windy is it today? Why, it’s windy enough for the wooden hatch cover thingy into my loft to spontaneously displace itself upwards, as if I have a tall poltergeist or some highly evolved rats in my luxury apartment.
It’s not Hurricane Ivan, I know. But I think it’s what used to be Hurricane Frances.
Heffers is the only place that smells like Heffers.
That is all.
So this Fathers 4 Justice bloke scaled a wall and sat on a Buckingham Palace ledge dressed as Batman for five hours. Security breach, hand-wringing, etc.
Various rentaquotes are subsequently wheeled in and out of media interviews. Something Must Be Done, won’t anyone think of the children, etc.
And then the comment I’ve been waiting for. J. Random Expert declares that the police could tell that he wasn’t a terrorist because he was dressed as Batman.
The obvious follow-up question — so what does a terrorist wear, then? — is sadly not asked. I note without comment that the self-proclaimed “comedy terrorist” who invaded Prince William’s birthday party at Windsor last year was dressed as, er, Osama bin Laden.
If this is the August bank holiday, it must be Camber Sands.
This year’s photographic affectation involves close-ups of dune grass, with Rye harbour entrance and Fairlight in the background.