Today I had the day off work, and we actually went out! We went out for lunch, do you remember that? I barely do. Being able to go out for lunch.
Well we had to drive all the way to Harrogate to do it because we fancied going to Wagamamas and that was the nearest one that was open, but it was almost, almost, like the before-times.
That, and all the waitresses were dressed as surgeons, and there were screens on the tables, but it was almost like the before-times.
Oh, and you had to pay by using your phone via a website because despite bringing us drinks and food for an hour or so, holding the card machine for us to beep would be just too risky, but it was kind of like the before-times.
Aaaand they only had a limited menu, because… reasons, but it was a bit like the before-times.
OK so it was nothing like the before times, but we had a child free lunch out in a nice restaurant with nice food and the weather was nice.
Even with all this time, or well now that I’m back at work this time where I’m not out running rampant like I normally would pre-lockdown, I still seem to find myself in this position most months of being on the cusp of four posts and not quite being able to find the last one.
I had several ideas which will no doubt appear next month once I have had a chance to actually do some research or, at least, download the pictures so it’s not one massive block of text with me pointing at things that aren’t there. I suppose that could work though, slightly less absorbing than an empty space where a post should be.
I was even going to drum up some thrills for a new caption completion. Alas, by not going anywhere or doing anything there are no strange photos in my phone for me to pass off as my own efforts. So let me fill up this with a couple of shout outs:
Happy Birthday, Kev. I hope you realise that we have now known each other for 24 years. Once our friendship reaches the big 25 we may have to do something special like flying into space or getting drunk on a park at 11pm. Your choice.
We’re smooshing into the second half of the year and my work colleague is already talking about Christmas, mainly because there’s cock all else to look forward to at the moment. It also means there’s only five more months of lovely PB calendar action before we must all return to boring, humdrum calendars that don’t have owls in coffee shops, notebook selfies or any of my book covers.
I still need a haircut. I have to get it sorted next week because I’m fast approaching Cousin It from ‘The Addams Family’ level of hair proportions without one. You know how hairy on the go I normally am, this is more like hairy through the window on a jetpack.
If anyone else would like to announce anything please feel free to do so.
I know what you’re both thinking and, no, it’s not another one of my much-loved, imitated and lauded best-selling novels. Calm down my precious fans, you haven’t missed a pre-order for another first edition that you can keep your families warm with over those long winter months. This is something completely different.
Prior to being hoisted back into clothes and into the general population by work, I was having yet another sort out in order to try and fit a large amount of THINGS into the same space they’ve been living in for six months now. This requires a meticulous amount of opening boxes, sighing loudly and then trying to squish something else into it in the hope that the top will still stay on once I’ve pushed a large rectangle into a tiny triangular slot. Most of the time it works. Soon I may have to invest in some more shelves and possibly some hammocks for the corners.
I unearthed yet another pile of gibberish, which is what I refer to anything I was scribbling in prior to this post. I have a lot of it, notebooks and notebooks of word guff hastily wangled around early attempts by post-modern hedonistic oober artist, Reuben. Sandwiched in-between my original lyrics for ’10 out of 10 out of 10 (out of 10 out of 10)’ and Reuben’s sketches for something called ‘Pirate Chicken and Son’ (spoiler: you don’t need pants to be cool), there was a couple of pages you may recognise:
It’s important for a number of reasons:
It features Chris’s disgusting scrodsack of change (or was it Kev’s?);
There are a number of facts including Marshall can sense mums with his crotch, that mushrooms come last and that I am an eager-maniac;
The original appearance of cult favourite Wexford and his cheese-polishing adventures;
The height chart to explain how tall Kevin is.
I would donate the entire thing to Chris’ archives but there some boring old Christmas lists and some other questionable songs I wrote that take up the majority of the book so it would be a fool’s errand. I may carefully rip the pages out and send them via special courier so that they reach you in one piece now that Steve “Steady on, now” Steveingtons has finally given up on his restraining order and let you back in your flat.
Way back, many moons ago, there was a suggestion from myself that Chis and I had written to the RSPB to complain about the lack of dinosaurs. The conversation can be found in the comments below the post An Admission of Sorts, a summary is included here:
“It is a letter that needs to be sent. I imagine that much like the one me and Chris wrote to the RSPB about the lack of dinosaurs at Fairburn Inngs, it will be ignored, but it must be sent nonetheless….”
“Two things are needed here… The second is more information about the letter to Fairburn Ings, which I have no memory of.”
“Is the letter mentioned on here, Kev?”
“I’ll have a chumble[sic], it feels like it should be.”
It wasnt. There was no mention of it which led to comments such as…
“Maybe the right thing to do now is ask whether it happened at all, or whether it’s some sort of weird dream.”
Well today, I have BIG NEWS. I found it. Just the letter mind, sadly the enclosed drawing must have been a one off and is lost to the mists of time. It’s a doozy let me tell you.
Sadly Mr. Steven James never received a reply to the RSPB, it’s almost as if they didn’t take us seriously.
In a side note, the little bit in the comments below the throw away bit about a letter that might not exist, is an excellent little ‘choose-your-own-adventure’ riff from Chris and Ian. Well done chaps, it made me lols all over again.