Avaragado's blog

Went to see the play Bouncers last night, by (hold on to your lunch) John Godber, and starring Nasty Nick from EastEnders, Terry from Corrie, and two others who apparently didn’t deserve a billing by the Corn Exchange (though those two had a bit more, shall we say, range, than the big names).

We had front row seats: close enough to see the whites of their eyes and the froth of their spit. The two non-soapies nearly cracked up near the end (“Lucky Eddie’s fourth – and final – speech”), just after a scripted roll-on-floor by Terry-from-Corrie was followed by an unscripted pick-up-coins-that-fell-out-of-my-pocket by same.

Avaragado’s score: three melons.

I’ll stop writing now before this turns into an essay.

Avaragado’s gallery now extends back to the beginning of 1999. People are starting to look younger…. Pages 5 to 7, boys and girls.

Highlights include: Shazzie’s 30th; 101 things to do with lucite; Avaragado pie-eyed; Roger topless; bowling; very nearly seeing the eclipse; the Maldives; a fancy dress Christmas party; and the Millennium on Parker’s Piece.

One of the “advantages” of not working is that you get to see, if you so desire, live speeches by various dignitaries in full on the 24-hour news channels as they scramble desperately for something to show. (Breaking news! Update! Newsflash! Latest! Please watch!)

Currently, London is blessed by the presence of Dubya. He is the most tedious, uninspiring, plodding speaker I’ve heard in a long time (it’s about six months since my last Doug yawnfest). The shrub can’t say more than half a dozen words without pausing for a couple of seconds in an attempt to sound “presidential”. Occasionally he pauses longer, probably because his teleprompter says “wait for applause”; eventually the audience gets the hint, but not always (which amuses me).

At the Job Centre, my instantiated Pauline also implemented Phill Jupitus.

Sigh, went to the Job Centre today for the first time, to be anointed as a Job Seeker. One of Thatcher’s millions, as I believe is the vernacular.

I am now officially dole scum.

Tomorrow I have an appointment with a person of type Pauline.

We went to La Tasca last night for tapas. Very good it was too. Look at the photos.

I’ve also just put up similar photos from a hundred years ago.

LATEST NEWS … Avaragado graciously concedes that three fillings and a trip to the hygienist isn’t so bad for ten years without check-ups … Latest reports indicate there’ll be one filling where the tooth chipped, and two smaller ones elsewhere … Avaragado has “good oral hygiene”, says the dentist in the presence of his bored assistant …

Avaragado reports to synchronised swoons that he’s having all three fillings done at once on December 10, in a classic get-them-all-out-of-the-way manoeuvre. But one or other of Avaragado and the hygienist has a very full diary, and consequently Avaragado won’t see him/her until late January.

Ah, dentistry news, it’s what makes blogs so special.

“I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter, your tea’s nearly ready. You too, Bertolli The New Name For Olivio.”

Much as I liked the fashionable dustbin bag taped into place to keep the rain out, it felt a bit pointless doing things like, you know, locking the car doors. Very much a workaround rather than a bug fix. Jokes about “security holes” welcome… anyway, proper fix required.

Naturally, coming from a family steeped in the scrap metal and car-breaking business, I know nothing about cars except how to drive them. (One of these days I’ll learn how to park them.)

Luckily my Dad does. He found a replacement window for a fiver, and we spent this morning fitting it. (OK, he did most of the work. I hoovered up glass, held things that needed holding, and got in the way.) You have to strip the door right down, bits everywhere. The hardest parts were probably getting the window handle off and divining the correct angle of approach to insert the new window. Still, all better now. You can’t tell the difference, unless you look closely and spot someone else’s number plate etched on it.

Fascinating fact of the day: no matter how much you hoover, there’s always more glass left.

It’s three weeks since my surgery, time for my first follow-up appointment with the neurosurgeon. It’s all good news.

The residual pain I occasionally feel is perfectly normal, he says; most people are in more pain than me at this stage. The nerve root is still recovering from the original problem, so it’ll take a few more weeks for the pain to fizzle out completely. Even so, I might be left with something niggly, but nothing I can’t live with.

I can now start to do more things, like drive again. Everything in moderation: walking, swimming, cycling. (Hmm, maybe I should take up swimming.) I shouldn’t jog (ha!) or play badminton until about six months after the surgery, as all that running about jars the spine too much.

Rather to my surprise, he’s happy for me to ski in January, as long as I take it easy. (I wonder whether I should try ski boards/snow blades/whatever they’re called?)

He wants to see me again about three months after the surgery – just before I go skiing, preferably – for a final all-clear.