tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-62116411441196147242024-03-13T09:38:29.004-07:00Legend in his own lunchtimeOn life, the Universe and everything, almost.Wally Bhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05992375461165449990noreply@blogger.comBlogger126125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6211641144119614724.post-72182698713090275292015-07-30T10:22:00.000-07:002015-07-30T10:23:31.048-07:00Tomato heaven<br />
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Some of you with long memories may remember a post I did about my ability to fail, consistently, at growing tomatoes.<br />
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Well folks, this year I DID it *Loud fanfare reverberates across continents*.<br />
I have a greenhouse full of delicious sweet orbs of all shapes, colors and sizes. Their smell instantly takes me back to my Grandfather's greenhouse in Ellington Colliery, a small mining community in the North of England. <br />
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Granda Reid was a master gardener who could raise the most exquisite flowers and vegetables. Alas, his secrets on how he created this magic died with him at the tender age of 63. He died from Pneumoconiosis (Black Lung), a common Coal Miner's disease. The description on his death certificate said Pneumonia. Maybe it was easier to spell, but I suspect that was done so the mine did not have to pay compensation to his wife, but I digress.<br />
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As a small child, I would stay over at my Grandparent's house for large parts of the summer, and run feral with the other kids in the village. In more quiet times, I would sit with Granda in the semi tropical atmosphere of his sanctuary. He was already showing symptoms of the black disease even then and couldn't walk very far, so we'd sit on small wooden 3 legged stools called "Crackets", and he would tell me stories about growing up looking after his brothers and sisters after his Mom died. <br />
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After the story, he would pluck one of his beauties off the vine, slice it in two with a knife he always carried in his pocket, and hand it to me. As I held the fragrant fruit in both hands, he would get up and go to a little drawer in his potting bench and take out a small tin box that had salt and pepper in it. I would hold out my hands with the glistening halves of Tomato in them, and Granda would sprinkle a little on each half as if conducting a well practiced ritual,<br />
He would then watch me pop them in my mouth and waited to see my expression.<br />
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Yesterday, I was running late to get to our weekly music session, so I grabbed a snack to eat on the way over in the car. I sliced one of my precious tomatoes, buttered 2 slices of bread, and seasoned it with salt and black pepper. I quickly wrapped a napkin round it and bolted out the door.<br />
As I started the car and backed out of the drive, I could smell my snack. Suddenly, I was back there in the greenhouse in Ellington listening to Granda and watching him wipe his glasses on the tail of his shirt, which always stuck out on one side of his pants as if it was trying to escape.<br />
I pulled a half of the sandwich out of the napkin and bit into it, while pulling to a stop at the end of the road. The flavor was so intense, I had to pull over by the side of the road so I could enjoy the many sensations in my mouth. The sweetness and acidity of the tomato being complimented by the salt and heat of cracked black pepper, not to mention the creaminess of Irish butter, rendered me unable to move.<br />
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I must have sat there for at least 10 minutes with the juice running down my face, relishing the memories and thinking of what my Granda's expression would be as he witnessed the pure joy of such a simple pleasure.<br />
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Got to go, I can feel a tomato snack coming on ..............<br />
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<br />Wally Bhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05992375461165449990noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6211641144119614724.post-48499595117692320912015-04-14T14:14:00.002-07:002015-04-18T08:23:47.816-07:00Now, where was I?Ah yes, I remember now. <br />
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I was wallowing in self pity and trying to write angst ridden poetry. I have learned a lot this past year, not least that I can't write poetry,....... not even close.<br />
I promise not to inflict any more on my loyal readers.<br />
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The cause of my absence has not gone away, I have just learned to cope with it a lot better. With the help of good friends and some counseling, I have eventually taken back my life and have reentered the realm of a functioning and feeling person.<br />
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I am in London at the moment staying with my friends, Jill and Paul, after having just spent two wonderful weeks with my Dad. He is in great spirits and in remarkable health, despite having had a heart attack last year. Here is the old boy on his new mobility Trike.<br />
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Jill and Paul had to go to a funeral yesterday, so I had an unexpected day free. I took the train to Guildford, and set off into the town for a wee explore. It was baking hot, especially in the high street, and very smelly on account of the smog, so I went in search of a nice pub or restaurant to try some local produce. Sadly, the offerings were not that interesting. I made do with a lovely Italian Restaurant called Olivo, with a cool and quiet Patio.<br />
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They had a pleasant 2 course fixed price menu, so I took a seat on the empty patio and relaxed with a large glass of Orvieto. I had not been there long, when I was joined on one side by a young Italian family, and a couple from Hong Kong on the other. The twin Italian boys, started taking pop shots at me with their make believe guns, using the cutlery as weapons. Mom and Dad were deep in some loud and heated debate, so were completely oblivious at the outbreak of the 3rd world war. The lady from Hong Kong was becoming irate at the refusal of a table she wanted, despite being clearly labeled as reserved. As she was ushered into the seat closest to me, she swung around with exaggerated annoyance and cracked me over the head with her shoulder bag. <br />
WTF<br />
She looked at her bag to check I hadn't damaged it, and then sat down in sullen silence. Not for long though. While I was deflecting incoming missiles from the Italian front, she got up again, spinning around abruptly and cracked me on the shoulder. She looked at me as if I had just shit in her shoes, and proceeded to harangue the waiter who was trying to deliver my lunch. I have no idea what the problem was, but as she was looking at me, I presumed that there was not enough room, in the otherwise empty restaurant, for the two of us ...........so I shot her.<br />
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I didn't actually, but I sooooo wanted to.<br />
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The waiter kindly offered me another seat, so I decamped at the other end of the Patio, leaving the Italian boys to dispose of her.<br />
The food was OK, but not worth the hassle so I took an early train back to the house, and spent the rest of the afternoon sunning myself in the garden and dreaming about a news report of a massacre in an Italian restaurant.<br />
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See you all soonWally Bhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05992375461165449990noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6211641144119614724.post-81047102592218911642014-06-22T06:27:00.000-07:002014-06-22T06:27:27.818-07:00The Longest Day<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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A new day dawns, metaphorically and actually. On this Solstice morning, I met an old friend I had not seen in years. <br />
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He has been living in this house hidden in plain sight. <br />
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We enjoyed the Sunrise together, reminiscing about old times. I gave him a hug after breakfast and we made a promise not to be such strangers in the future.<br />
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Welcome home.<br />
<br />Wally Bhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05992375461165449990noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6211641144119614724.post-76875277053997279852014-04-02T05:20:00.001-07:002014-04-02T05:22:07.177-07:00Spellinh mistakes courtesy of East Coast RaiilI am sitting on a train heading out of Newcastle on my way back south to Londn after 2 weeks of visiting my Dad. I treated myself to a 1st class ticket ( which was not much more than a standard class), so i have free wifi and fodd and drink service. i thought i would take advantage of the 31/2 hour journy to catch up on my blogging. However, I have not aken into onsideration the lack of investment in rail travel over the last 20 years or so, which makes rail travel, even 1st cladss feel like riding a very bumpy roler coaster.<br />
I have just ben served a large glas of red wiine and I am taking bets as to howw much gets drunk, and how much gets pored over my nice clesn shirst.<br />
I am happy to report that Dad is alive and well on the aniverery of his 90th Birthday. He is smaller, less steady on his feet, and has a few more shakes than 6 months ago, but is remrkable, considering he had a hert attack in February last year, which nearl floored him completely.<br />
It never gets any easier saying goodbye, as we both keep thinking this will be the last time we see each other, but we romised to see each other in 6 months which gives us both something to look forward to.<br />
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The lokelyhood of me having a clean shirt when i arrive in london has now been decreased with the arrival of lunch. All bets are off.<br />
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Wally Bhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05992375461165449990noreply@blogger.com20tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6211641144119614724.post-32634866317936776532014-03-03T17:26:00.001-08:002014-03-05T14:22:02.277-08:00The day for the "Talk" is fast approaching.<br />
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I took our son to a community dance this weekend, along with his friend Sally (Not the real name) who lives next door. Legend Jr is almost 10 and Sally is almost 12, just about the right time for her to "Blossom."<br />
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I remember my old Jr School teacher, Mrs Wilson, telling us rag tag 10 year old boys that Maureen would not be changing with us anymore for Gym, as she had blossomed.<br />
We had NO idea what she meant, but we assumed she had some nasty disease as she had to get changed in the janitor's closet, so we never did get to see what all the fuss was about. My only sex education was gleaned from the walls of the toilet block. For years I thought women got pregnant by having someone shove their finger in their ear. Obviously, the diagrams were not too accurate. One of the more enlightened boys tried to show me how it was done by thrusting his loins at a small hole in a tree trunk in our back garden. I still failed to see what sticking your spiget in a hole in a tree could possibly have to do with making babies.<br />
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I was a slow learner.<br />
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So, back to Jr and Sally.<br />
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These two have been palling around for the last two years since she moved next door. She has accompanied us on many trips and Island excursions, and to all intents and purposes was just one of the boys. However, when she came over to the house on Saturday dressed in skin tight leotard bottoms and a skimpy figure hugging shirt, I couldn't help notice that her boyish figure had vanished.<br />
Legend Jr apparently, had not noticed any change, that is until we got to the dance.<br />
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After several energetic numbers had been played, and a lot of jumping around had been performed, Jr came up to me and whispered confidentially that Sally had "jiggly bits just like Mommy."<br />
After I snorted out my red wine through my nose and all over the table, I quickly regained my composure to try and deliver his first sex education lesson.<br />
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I briefly explained to him that Sally was getting older and her body was developing in a way that would enable her to have babies some time in the future.<br />
"What will happen to me when I am old enough," he asked in that tone of voice you know is going to come back at you and bite you in the arse.<br />
I told him his voice would change and he would start to grow hair on his body, just like Daddy.<br />
He asked if his Spiget would get any bigger, and I affirmed that it probably would, in time.<br />
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He thought about this for a while and then asked me if I was still waiting for that to happen.<br />
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He gets me every time. Just like a lamb to the slaughter. <br />
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<br />Wally Bhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05992375461165449990noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6211641144119614724.post-41317915260170752282014-01-08T11:50:00.000-08:002014-01-08T16:28:54.146-08:00A good start to 2014Happy New Year all y'all, as they say in Texas, allegedly.<br />
The only time I have been there was when I got stuck in Dallas, on route to Colorado. I may have heard that very expression used, but I was full of Tequila and so jet lagged, I couldn't walk. I do remember getting a taxi from the airport into down town, as the driver pointed out where Kennedy had his brains blown out. I think he was impressed by my perceptive nature when I told him they had done a good job cleaning up the mess.<br />
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Speaking of messes, I can say without equivocation, that 2013 was one of my worst years on record. Sure there were highlights. I think I documented every one on this blog. So you see, there was much to be left unsaid.<br />
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I have a feeling that 2014 will be different. My Labor Compliance Consultancy landed a big contract, after chasing them for 2 years. Things are still slow, but at least crawling along instead of lying prone like a snake on life support.<br />
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You may remember, I have resurrected my catering skills to keep some cash flow coming in, instead of flowing out all over the floor. That has been quite lucrative and is picking up week by week. I am chefing at one of my favorite veggie places on the Island (Snapdragon) on the 18th where we will be doing an Indian Tapas night, with favorites such as Mushroom Massala, Punjabi spiced chick peas, and Pakora with yoghurt curry sauce. If it goes well, I may be allowed to make it a regular occurrence.<br />
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My wine making is going from strength to strength, with friends pushing me to make it more official, i.e. sell the stuff instead of drinking it all. I took a major risk with the 2012 Cabernet by bottling it a year early. What on earth for, I hear you ask. America is suffering from an acute barrel shortage. Who knew?<br />
Not me apparently.<br />
The day before the 2013 Cabernet was due to go into the barrels, we were still missing a very important part of the process.<br />
Ooh, you are good.<br />
Yes, we also had a shortage of empty barrels.<br />
I decided to bottle the 2012, to free up the aforesaid barrels, so we didn't <strike>fuck</strike> screw up the 2013 production.<br />
As it turns out, it is delicious and very fruit forward (Think Beaujolais Nouveau.)<br />
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And last, but not least, my good friend Kat Eggleston's dad is now safe in a wonderful senior center on the Island. He is suffering from dementia and has been a handful for her to care for. This new life for Al has meant she is now free to play and travel, so Middlemarch (Kat, John Dally and yours truly) will take wings and maybe end up playing somewhere near you.<br />
Beware!!<br />
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So wherever you are, whatever you do, make 2014 a year to remember.Wally Bhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05992375461165449990noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6211641144119614724.post-82368108605871100982013-11-05T10:59:00.000-08:002013-11-06T08:13:51.245-08:00Bits and bobs and the lovely Hestia<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Morpeth</td></tr>
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I was back home in the North East recently to see my dad, who is recovering from a major heart attack. He is 89 and still living at home and doing a very good job of being independent. Since my last trip 6 months ago, he has become more frail and a tad forgetful, but he still insists he does not need help. I was only allowed in the kitchen to eat the food he prepared for me with loving precision. He wouldn't even let me wash up. I did get to take him out in his car for small trips to see relatives, or do the shopping at Aldi. You know time is hanging heavy when he insists on taking their catalog home to read. I couldn't get him to stay anywhere for more than 10 minutes before he wanted to be back home. I didn't understand this until my sister in law told me that home is where my Mom is in his mind, and he just wants to be back with her.<br />
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I did score one success on this trip. I found him a mobility scooter he can use to get to the local shops. He doesn't really need it yet, but it won't be long before that short trip will be out of his range. When we got home, he took it out on the pavement to try it out. As he was backing it into his garage, he looked at me and said, " Well, it isn't as exciting as my old Yamaha 250, but I will get used to it."<br />
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Apart from seeing my Dad, I had two very special surprises. A good friend of ours, Victoria and her daughter Kaitlyn, were in Greece as a present for Kaitlyn's graduation. They ended their trip by coming up to the North East to visit me. It was a very special few days, as I got to show friends from my new home, how special my old home is. I took them to see the castles and beaches, of which there are many in Northumbeland, and we hiked part of Hadrian's wall.<br />
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We stopped in for lunch at the <a href="http://www.battlesteads.com/">Battlesteads Pub</a> in Wark, a highly acclaimed Gastro Pub and had some wonderful cheese and potted ham. The home made piccalilli tasted wonderful, but it did look a bit like cat vomit. Too much sauce and not enough pickle.<br />
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I did notice a sign in the toilet that perhaps reflects the current anti immigrant feeling in the UK.<br />
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Apparently, they are not too easy to dispose of up here.<br />
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When I go back, I always have to go for dinner at the <a href="http://www.theratinn.com/">Rat Inn</a>, one of the best pub restaurants in the country. Their Lamb is to die for, and their beer selection is sublime. The girls ended up their brief stay tucking into the best food this region has to offer.<br />
They promised a return visit. I hope so. <br />
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I spent some time with <a href="http://www.terrydochertyguitars.com/">Terry Docherty</a> and <a href="http://www.petescott.co.uk/">Pete Scott</a> in Newcastle the following week, catching up with the local music news and trying out all the new beers and watering holes down by the old quayside.<br />
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I got to sing at a folk club and found some new songs that I just have to learn. I took the train back down to London on the Friday, and got to taste a "Fantastic Pastie" at the central Station, the subject of one of Pete's songs. <br />
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When in London, I always try and see my two lovely friends Jill and Sarah, both from school days. I usually stay with Jill and her husband Paul, and we save one night for a few drinkies in Soho.<br />
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Last, but certainly not least, I got to meet the Lovely Hestia (Alison Cross). Now to say this lady has considerable talent, is a bit like saying the Pope is a Catholic. I love her writing, her humor, and all the little ways she has helped and encouraged me to write over the last few years. She was in London at a Tarot conference where she was presenting, and had some free time for a lunch on Sunday. I met Ali and her husband and son at the Dickens Inn. We had tried to get Jo from "A Girl's guide to turning 50" fame to join us, but we failed to let her know where we were in time for her to be there:(<br />
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To use one of Ali's expressions, I luff her. We had a great lunch and a wee walk through the deserted streets of the city, before they went on their way and I headed back to Jill's for the night.<br />
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I am now back home on Vashon and straight back into the routine.<br />
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What a memorable tripWally Bhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05992375461165449990noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6211641144119614724.post-24369182707011288662013-09-05T10:14:00.000-07:002013-09-05T10:14:16.569-07:00No... honestly.... they are not mine.......<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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For those that know me well, you will already know of my ability to lose my wallet on a depressingly frequent basis. You may not, however, be aware of my propensity for embarrassing moments. Maybe my 3rd grade teacher was right when she said I would need a nursemaid, or at least someone who could help me extricate myself from the messes I can get myself into.<br />
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For instance, my son left for his first day of 4th grade yesterday and left his swim suit and towel in the dryer. How inconsiderate of me to wash and dry his clothes and forget to put them in his school bag. The wheel has almost come round full circle as I pull everything out of the dryer and prepare to head into school to drop the offending articles off at his new class.<br />
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As I get out of the car, I find a pair of my wife's panties stuck to the towel. God bless static electricity.<br />
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As I am also in a hurry, I stuff the red silk underwear into my short's pocket.<br />
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I call into the office and get my security clearance, together with my visitor badge and <strike>hide the AK45</strike> <strike>in the towel</strike> and head off upstairs to his new classroom.<br />
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So far, so good.<br />
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I knock politely on the door and I am waved in by his new teacher. I tell her I have just dropped in to bring his swim suit. We exchange polite conversation and I hear how delighted she is to have Legend Jr in her class this year and then I turn to leave. I pull my car keys out of my pocket and out pops a pair of, well, let's just say they wouldn't pass for a handkerchief. She looks at the floor, then at me, then back to the floor again as I retrieve the offending article.<br />
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"I do rather like the color red," I said, as I opened the door and beat a hasty retreat back to the office to sign out. I did catch a glimpse of her doing a very good impression of a Guppy with a speech impediment just before the door closed.<br />
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And so another good start to the school year unfolds.<br />
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I think I will keep my distance for a while. Maybe until High School<br />
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<br />Wally Bhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05992375461165449990noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6211641144119614724.post-26415117986668553702013-08-07T12:10:00.002-07:002013-08-07T12:10:48.562-07:00SIM Card Hell<br />
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Back in February, I went back to England to visit my Dad. I have an old unused Blackberry, so I thought I would just take it with me, buy a SIM Card, on account of the last trip and the extortionately large bill I received when I got back to Vashon for using my US phone for 1 call.<br />
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Simple idea, but as it turns out, it was a nightmare to arrange. I ended up buying a new cheap phone in England, and apart from the problems setting it up through <strike>T-Mobile</strike> a carrier who shall remain anonymous. I mean, their input template wouldn't recognize a period FFS. Have you ever tried to type in an e-mail address without being able to use the "." function? I ended up opening a word document, typing in .com, and pasting it in to the required field. Several sweary words later, I managed to open an account and make a call.<br />
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When I got home, I decided to give the phone to my 9 year old son, who is getting more independant by the day. I thought, mistakenly as it turns out, that if I bought a US SIM Card, it would work just fine. $10 later, I installed the new SIM Card, only to get this error message, "Not Compatible."<br />
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What is not compatible?<br />
<br />
The phone, the card, me and my wife, or some other piece of nonsense?<br />
<br />
It didn't say.<br />
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By now, the normally sedate Legend's blood pressure was causing my eyes to bulge as I headed off Island to find a card that would work. I popped into Target and was helped by a nice young man who wanted to be my best friend, and couldn't do enough for me. He promised that if the T-Mobile card didn't work, he would refund the money (another $10), an option I partook of the very next day because it was the wrong f***ing size.<br />
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By now, my heart was keeping time to a Gloria Estefan Conga as I headed towards a T-Mobile store, fully intent on doing someone bodily harm if this was not resolved.<br />
The salesperson took the phone, opened it up, inserted the right size of SIM Card, opened the account and handed it back to me and said, "This should work now." I paid another $10 for the new card, and a $10 top up for service.<br />
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I switched it on and got a "No Service" message.<br />
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"It appears to be NOT working now," I said with only a slight hint of malice.<br />
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"Oh, did you say you bought it in England?"<br />
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"I did."<br />
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"Oh, It is probably locked for use in England and won't work in the USA."<br />
<br />
I grabbed him by the throat and flung him to the floor and started to beat him senseless with my English f***ing useless phone. Actually, I didn't do that, but I SO wanted to. Instead,I asked him politely why he sold me the new card and accepted my money if he KNEW it was not going to work.<br />
I think there may have been a few expletives in there also, on account of the manager coming over to intervene.<br />
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He apologised, and then offered to sell me a phone that would work which would cost another $49.99.<br />
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I offered to insert it up his rectum.<br />
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I left the store in a mood that, let's say, could only be described as uncharitable, and went to search for a new phone. This was my last chance to avoid a hefty jail sentence as a result of strangling someone, so I headed off to the Seattle Mall.<br />
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I did find one, and paid the more reasonable $29.99.<br />
I now have to charge it up. Of course, the charger doesn't fit any of the other devices we have, so I have to buy something that will work in the car too.<br />
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Sometimes good ideas just don't work that well.<br />
<br />Wally Bhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05992375461165449990noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6211641144119614724.post-59995759950624354452013-05-28T12:53:00.000-07:002013-05-30T09:27:57.739-07:00Cruel and unusual punishment<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Several weeks ago, my dear wife <strike>asked</strike> told me to sign Jr. up for T Ball, the pre-curser to baseball for children, so I duly paid the fee and signed my name in blood. We have tried to get our son interested in team ball sports, but apart from kicking a soccer ball past his own goalkeeper during an English soccer camp on the island, he has so far failed to show either prowess or interest, which is fine by me. Playing team sports here requires the logistics of the last crusade, the patience of Mother Teresa, and the time that only the seriously driven parent can afford.<br />
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Zero out of 3 so far.<br />
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So it was with a certain amount of trepidation, I drove him to his first team meeting.<br />
After corralling the future Allstars in the bull pen, the coach gave them all a little talk on what to expect. They had to run to first base to be allowed on the team, which they all managed to do with a little help from eager parents. The coach then handed out their uniforms and told us to be at the High School for opening day of the baseball season, uniforms on and raring to go at 9.00am sharp.<br />
Saturday morning at 8.30am, we were still hunting for elements of the uniform that had disappeared as soon as we got out of the car from his first practice. Not an auspicious start.<br />
We arrived there 5 minutes late, and discovered (not for the 1st time) that the word "sharp" on Vashon, really means "approximately."<br />
The fairly pleasant weather of the last 3 weeks had changed overnight to a blustery, chilling and downright dirty day. We stood in line for 20 minutes for the team photo, by which time some of the younger kids had been taken home with frostbite.<br />
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Parents huddled round cups of coffee to keep warm while the coach encouraged her new recruits to jump, stretch, <strike>wrestle</strike> run on the spot to ward off hypothermia.<br />
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There were 5 other T ball teams there, as well as all the teams from the middle and high school, and all of them were programmed to play a short game each, before the parade could start. Needless to say, there was an awful lot of standing around. As if to add more misery to the plot, the wind picked up speed and sent anything that wasn't screwed down scurrying across the sports field, including mini tornadoes of dust from the pitch.<br />
I <strike>hid </strike>sheltered in the dugout and watched as their first game progressed, shivering as the realization that this might be what my life was going to look like took hold. It didn't help that my wife had just told me that our friend Jim had been to every practice and every game his two sons had played, and then stated, "Now that's a real Dad for you."<br />
As the game progressed, I found myself getting more involved, as kids ran around the diamond with scant idea of what or where they were supposed to be doing or going.<br />
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"Throw the ball to first base.....yes the ball in your hand.... throw it to......OK, run over with it....to 1st base.....that's 3rd base......good throw."<br />
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It wouldn't be an opening day for anything in America without a parade.<br />
While the compere chatted and the grand stand filled up with parents and sponsors (yup, even T ball has sponsors), the assembled teams stood off in the distance, freezing their little butts off.<br />
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It took over half an hour before the assembled masses were ready to watch, by which time, many more of the smaller children had been carried off by their parents. Eventually, the word was given and they trotted past the stand and assembled on the running track, team by team. I had to take a photo of the flag at the corner of the field, as this will give you something of an idea of how windy the day was.<br />
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After all the teams had assembled, they reserved the last bit of torture to close the parade. I am of course referring to the singing of the Star Strangled Banner. Like all dutiful and patriotic citizens, the children and parents, coaches and teachers, all solemnly put their hand over their heart except for Legend Jr (mine were over my ears), as a lady, who I did not recognize, murdered the national anthem.<br />
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Who knows where this might lead. So far, he is enjoying his foray with a bat and ball, and I have enjoyed watching. However, I may not have what it takes to be a real dad:)<br />
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<br />Wally Bhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05992375461165449990noreply@blogger.com29tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6211641144119614724.post-53854148232057329132013-04-09T18:29:00.000-07:002013-04-09T18:29:02.271-07:00Tart Tatin challenge<br />
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I have had <strike>many</strike> several people ask if I will continue with the Legend Blog, now that I have a foodie blog on the go. The answer of course is yes....sort of......when I get the time. So I am going to cheat and combine a post here with a post from "<a href="http://thecookinyourkitchen.blogspot.com/search?updated-min=2013-01-01T00:00:00-08:00&updated-max=2014-01-01T00:00:00-08:00&max-results=7">the cook in your kitchen</a>" blog.<br />
There is method in my madness, and it is not altogether a lazy cop out. Just bare with me, while I explain.<br />
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Are you sitting comfortably?<br />
<br />
I have set myself a quest to find the perfect Tart Tatin recipe. It has eluded me for years, ever since I took my first bite of this most scrumptious, addictive concoction. In the cooking blog, I bare one of my attempts to make this dish with mediocre results. I can never re-create that first chewy, sticky bite. Maybe it was the atmosphere, maybe the company, maybe the large amount of alcohol consumed. Whatever it was, my efforts to date have not met my ideal. SO, in order to get there maybe a bit quicker, I have set a challenge, laid down the sticky caramel encrusted glove, so to speak, and finally asked for help.<br />
With only 9 followers for the cooking blog so far, whatever help might be forthcoming will be in small supply. This is where you come in. Have you made one before, is it fool proof, and can it be replicated?<br />
Send me your recipe, and some photos if possible and I'll collate them all and post the results. <br />
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Legend will resume normal service as soon as possible as soon as I can wash the toffee off my face.<br />
xx<br />
<br />Wally Bhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05992375461165449990noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6211641144119614724.post-58352744908624271122013-02-25T15:03:00.000-08:002013-03-12T08:35:04.088-07:00Legend goes walkabout (Part 2)<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> </td></tr>
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Legend Jr fell asleep on the RER train back to the airport in Paris and was comatose on the journey to Geneva and our subsequent transfer from the airport to Les Carroz. I believe I had been serenading the shuttle driver with a symphony of snoring, as we bounced around in the back seat. We woke up just in time to greet our hosts for the next 2 weeks, (let's just call them Mr and Mrs La Ruche, on account of their chalet name. I try and protect the innocent as much as possible, as well as avoiding costly law suits) who were patiently awaiting our arrival. The Chalet was full until the end of the week, so a good friend of theirs who lived over the road, had kindly offered to accommodate us in her spare ground floor apartment. After many hugs and kisses, which had been saved up for 15 years, we took our luggage to our new home to unpack and get a wash. 24 hours of travelling was starting to take its toll, on me anyway. Jr had found his new wind and was out sliding on a skating rink that doubled as a driveway during the day. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our first temporary home</td></tr>
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I made up the Futon on the floor, took a quick shower and headed back over to meet the <strike>Guinea Pigs </strike> guests, for whom I would be cooking for.<br />
Mr La Ruche was in the middle of serving dinner, a four course delight which consisted of (I have my notes for reference) Asparagus Panacotta, Tuscan Chicken, Cheese Board and Lemon and Lime Tarte to finish it off, all washed down with copious amounts of wine. After dinner, he introduced me to their guests. There were 11 adults and 15 children, all one party, and all from Scotland. The realization of what I had let myself in for started to dawn on me as we exchanged good hearted banter. Mr La Ruche would be a hard act to follow.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jr and pals</td></tr>
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Legend Jr had already found friends, and my role as parent started to recede, as they welcomed him into their extended family. He would reappear occasionally when he was hungry, or when he needed some help carrying his skis, but most of the next 2 weeks he was fairly self sufficient, thankfully, as I didn't have much time to keep him entertained.<br />
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Jr woke at 4am and kissed me on the cheek. "Daddy............" No response. "Daddy.......I can't sleep any more." Still no response. "DADDY...... I need the toilet, where is it?" This got my attention, as I rolled off the futon and banged my head against a chair which I had moved near the bed so I had somewhere handy to put my alarm clock on. It took me a little while to get my bearings, as Jr hopped from foot to foot. "Hurry Daddy, I'm going to BURST."<br />
I was vaguely aware of a little body shooting past me as I found the light switch and looked at my watch. <br />
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Jesus, this was going to be a long day.<br />
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We watched French cartoons in silence because I couldn't get the remote to work. After this got boring, we read for a while and I answered all his questions he had about why we were here and what we were going to be doing, all the while snuggled up in our warm duvet. It was bliss.<br />
We met Mr La Ruche at 7.15 just outside of the chalet so he could take me to the Boulangerie and introduce me to the owner. I would be strolling up here every morning in the silence of a sleeping ski village, the quiet broken only by the avalanche blasting and the occasional passing figure huddled up against the cold.<br />
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I had one day in the Kitchen with Mr La Ruche, before he headed into hospital for his prostate operation. We had a lot to catch up on, so we did as much yapping as we did work, a point not missed by Mrs La Ruche, who's work load was about to increase dramatically.<br />
The first day I was left on my own, I woke up at 3.15am. I had forgotten to pre soak the porridge, as instructed, so a trudged across the road to the chalet to rectify the problem. I went back to bed for a bit more shuteye, and woke up at 7.15am. <br />
Shit, shit, shit. I was going to be late for my first morning. I bundled Jr up and shot across the road, doing impersonations of Bambi on ice on a very slippery drive, and just managed to get him dressed and up to the Boulangerie in time to pick up the bread before the 1st guest came downstairs. <br />
Porridge on... Check.<br />
Bread cut......Check.<br />
Coffee brewed, Juice out of the fridge, butter, jams, ........Check.<br />
"Good morning Wally, Sleep OK? The kids will be down in a wee while. Any chance of some Porridge?"<br />
I gave Lorna her porridge, and had just poured myself a coffee, when I heard what would be my morning wake up call for the rest of the stay. <br />
<br />
15 hungry and boisterous children + Jr can make an awful lot of noise, not to mention mess.<br />
<br />
By the time breakfast was over, I was slumped in a chair by the door wondering if it was too late to escape. It was going to be a long 2 weeks.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiiAJ5hpIpSNWkwVz2tAV-pt3meNu9pw4FG-dNrHhqGZi7OZPhOoAM2bJVb6VpnHWmRUx5ez5WVAquLPr396vtsLfG6QMzK7P093b1NH03R3Ps5QdfjMRdDHGWEkSnz19TNSK5STOQmas/s1600/IMG-20130208-00340.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiiAJ5hpIpSNWkwVz2tAV-pt3meNu9pw4FG-dNrHhqGZi7OZPhOoAM2bJVb6VpnHWmRUx5ez5WVAquLPr396vtsLfG6QMzK7P093b1NH03R3Ps5QdfjMRdDHGWEkSnz19TNSK5STOQmas/s320/IMG-20130208-00340.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Burgers anyone?</td></tr>
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<br />
I did the shopping down at Carrefour, 2 days a week. It is an interesting shop, or maybe just an indication of day to day life in rural France. The clothing, furniture and house furnishings all looked like something you would get at Woolworths, but the food section was like Fortnum and Mason, especially the deli. Pastry encrusted Terrines of Duck or Salmon, wonderful Salad Compos<i><span lang="EN" style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">ées</span></span></i><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span>and Saucissons of every variety lay side by side, and the cheeses.... oh the cheeses, many of which are banned in the USA. Apparently they might harm us. We can buy AK 47s without too much trouble, but not un-pasteurized cheese? WTF.<br />
<br />
I had imagined that I would blog all of the food I made, as I prepared to come over to France. However, I had not taken into account the amount of work it would take. <br />
I wasn't even close. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhp7EHXnfGrxCEpj87cToNB3BGfN7I6HXxN1_DX4rlfV5nlg_fM7PXyxNtLmVBk7G8-JEyvU6cwTcxtHEjlOHFn7UowFdJE9iv9Q876IfYfuxyCPLjqjIIFpLd3wagmi1jkn7F9c_kbMQY/s1600/IMG-20130205-00285.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhp7EHXnfGrxCEpj87cToNB3BGfN7I6HXxN1_DX4rlfV5nlg_fM7PXyxNtLmVBk7G8-JEyvU6cwTcxtHEjlOHFn7UowFdJE9iv9Q876IfYfuxyCPLjqjIIFpLd3wagmi1jkn7F9c_kbMQY/s320/IMG-20130205-00285.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">He was in awe of the sheer scale of the skiing</td></tr>
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<br />
I did have a few hours off in the afternoon, but these were taken up with getting Jr up and running on his skis (Except for one afternoon which is recorded here <a href="http://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=1550213239021072844#editor/target=post;postID=7873447427906095834">http://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=1550213239021072844#editor/target=post;postID=7873447427906095834</a> )<br />
<br />
By the time I finished at night, it was all I could do to get to my bed, <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjezhdZPSO7OcrsKbmFGszmcNX3vLA_ixHkkPM237uggTgHeoLwGi4zM8TnGDV78G11VWFEUK6yJ-g_YPiIfNImsbdv8Eb1uLBiADGTLpbSOwh9tMUCwNSPEy7ny8AV7iVxsTq4dwRxOlU/s1600/IMG-20130207-00313.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjezhdZPSO7OcrsKbmFGszmcNX3vLA_ixHkkPM237uggTgHeoLwGi4zM8TnGDV78G11VWFEUK6yJ-g_YPiIfNImsbdv8Eb1uLBiADGTLpbSOwh9tMUCwNSPEy7ny8AV7iVxsTq4dwRxOlU/s320/IMG-20130207-00313.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I know I left it here somewhere last night<br />
</td></tr>
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Every night, we would get 8-10 cms of new snow. Mrs La Ruche took the kids up to ski school in the van which had to be cleared of snow, and then she would clear the car park with the snow blower, followed by cleaning, laundry, baking and being a Mom to 2 wonderful daughters. She did all of this, and looked after my needs and questions with grace and good humour. She's a living Saint.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihxm9Fz3PZdk4eZleArl91CJAd6Vto2loHf7k7pikOzKXG1okSVRTef-x9iyB7DE36WmTVrHqv0XHF34EpO9u1aRKL6Iqp-3q1muv9yqZbprHLWHK_IZrDBTqH9S1m0vU3uCjvO3LFbK8/s1600/IMG_0402.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihxm9Fz3PZdk4eZleArl91CJAd6Vto2loHf7k7pikOzKXG1okSVRTef-x9iyB7DE36WmTVrHqv0XHF34EpO9u1aRKL6Iqp-3q1muv9yqZbprHLWHK_IZrDBTqH9S1m0vU3uCjvO3LFbK8/s320/IMG_0402.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">What a great crew. Cheers Nori</td></tr>
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<br />
The second week, was much the same as the first. Lovely guests, friends for Jr, and long days in the kitchen. Jr joined the ESI (International French Ski School) and is now the proud owner of his bronze badge. I got to ski with my God Daughter on the last day, or should I say I got to see her back disappearing into the distance. She is a very beautiful and talented young lady (so is her sister) and I'm glad I got this chance to connect after all these years.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigxZMPEGCer0CDCazSAkEmGN_2YWMW9Ao3W_-Lts6orWXyMMdTN-Iwx6FhPnqqu_iaAhGe1yuJfYYJm8V6DM30Tv1GG1GUTD8tZPDqd-nG6ztiEuJFdMez3eq7T9ZdHM67cCz4Ti8G39A/s1600/img-120510142033-001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigxZMPEGCer0CDCazSAkEmGN_2YWMW9Ao3W_-Lts6orWXyMMdTN-Iwx6FhPnqqu_iaAhGe1yuJfYYJm8V6DM30Tv1GG1GUTD8tZPDqd-nG6ztiEuJFdMez3eq7T9ZdHM67cCz4Ti8G39A/s320/img-120510142033-001.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The lovely Genevieve</td></tr>
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<br />
I learned a lot, including not filling the Tartiflette (Savoie speciality) with too much cream, as it boils over and stinks out the oven until it is cleaned (sorry), don't let the kids food touch on the plates, and don't forget to steep the Porridge.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeWKY4-43igW1hd7mDtRss2_u_qa_3jzFK9NTCW_c59hFNXlqJjkl7LGY4nKtdWFMNCpUKLcU_U5RniOwSOkT3ak_iB4nqlEOgzQ4fXyQ9zwaoaqE3gCkzWQGvY554jQBxkLzh506BQBg/s1600/IMG-20130205-00304.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeWKY4-43igW1hd7mDtRss2_u_qa_3jzFK9NTCW_c59hFNXlqJjkl7LGY4nKtdWFMNCpUKLcU_U5RniOwSOkT3ak_iB4nqlEOgzQ4fXyQ9zwaoaqE3gCkzWQGvY554jQBxkLzh506BQBg/s320/IMG-20130205-00304.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Some of this may still be on the oven floor.</td></tr>
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<br />
We made it back to Seattle without any incident. Mr La Ruche has had a successful operation and is back in charge of his domain, and Mrs La Ruche is probably needing a holiday right now. <br />
We miss you and hope it will not be another 15 years before I get a chance to burn your oven.......<br />
<br />Wally Bhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05992375461165449990noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6211641144119614724.post-88299461813063780432013-02-12T15:05:00.003-08:002013-02-12T15:08:37.478-08:00Legend goes walkabout (Part One)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Several weeks ago, I received a text from a very good friend who I had not seen in 15 years. I am his youngest daughter's God Father, so we are quite close emotionally, but distant geographically, hence the no-see situation. His Prostate problems had escalated into a sudden need to have it removed, which might not have been too much of an issue if he had a normal job, but he and his wife had bought a ski chalet many years ago. As the sole operators, removing him for a week or two would have been problematic, especially as he is the Chef. They are always booked in the winter months on account of their location (<a href="http://www.lescarroz.com/">Les Carroz</a>) and the fact that they offer supreme value. They specialize in catering for families and make it easy for parents to enjoy their holiday too.<br />
Anyhoo, he texted me to ask if I could come over for a week or two and chef for him, on account of me doing nothing (his words) at the moment. I couldn't say no, but I had to ask Mrs Legend first. <br />
She said, "You've got to go," so I texted him back and asked him to give me the dates. My wife also suggested that I take Legend Jr, as it would be too good of an opportunity not to miss.<br />
<br />
I booked the flights, and a week later, we found ourselves on a Delta flight to Geneva.<br />
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When we told Jr that he was going to France, he informed us that he had always wanted wanted to go and see the Eiffel Tower. We had no idea we had such a well informed son with such interesting ambitions, so we made sure it was on the Agenda.<br />
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We flew into Paris and took the opportunity of a 6 hour lay over to take the train into the center. We hadn't slept on the flight, so we were both a tad tired, but excited non the less to go on our little adventure. His teacher had created a little packet of math questions about the tower and had asked him to keep a journal of his travels.<br />
<br />
"No problem," I assured her, "we'll have lots of spare time to carry this out."<br />
<br />
We surfaced from the underground in a square, surrounded by tall buildings. Very elegant and historic buildings they were, but non of them looked anything like a tower. As I spun round in circles, trying to see the tower that was supposed to be there, I became aware of a little hand pulling at my jacket. <br />
"You've got us lost Daddy. I knew this was going to happen." Spurred on by his confidence in my ability to get lost, I dragged him down one street and then another, until finally we turned a corner, and there it was. <br />
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I turned to my son with the air of a man vindicated in his abilities to navigate in a large city, and was just about to blow him a few raspberries, when he looked my square in the eye and said, " Luck, pure luck."<br />
It is amazing. We stood next to one of the pillars with an elevator. Hmm, it looks pretty quiet, I thought, until I noticed the closed sign on the fence. <br />
<br />
Pillar A was fermé.<br />
<br />
Pillar C was not fermé, but it was surrounded by half of the population of Japan. As we only had six hours to spend, we decided to go over to pillar D which had the staircase, and as a result, was much less crowded. We paid our entrance fee and started to climb the steps. I was weighed down by our carry on luggage, so it wasn't long before I was gasping for air like a climber at the top of Everest.<br />
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By the time I got to the first level, Jr was already finished and was wanting to go back down to find a bathroom. I took a quick photo, then trudged back down as his little body disappeared from sight. <br />
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"Don't you two get separated now," said Mrs legend, as we left her with the car at the airport. "Don't worry," I replied, "He will be safe with me." <br />
<br />
I could hear these words throbbing in my ear as I tried to catch up with the little bugger, but he was too fast. When I eventually got back to the ground level, wheezing like an old bellows, he was no where in sight. As I stood there weighing my options (Join the foreign legion, embrace monastic life, emigrate to Iceland), I heard a gentle voice behind me asking if I was Monsieur Bell. I turned to face a tall young Gendarme who informed me that he had taken my son to the bathroom and had promised him he would find me. I thanked him and then asked him if he would take me back to the station now and book me in for assault, as I was going to crucify the little sod when I saw him next. <br />
He pointed me in the direction of the toilet, and wished me luck.<br />
<br />
We made it back to the airport in one piece, or at least Jr did. I think I may have lost a few pounds. He fell asleep on the train, and I had to carry him through check in and on to the plane for our final leg of the trip to Geneva. He isn't getting any lighter.<br />
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More of this story to follow.</div>
Wally Bhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05992375461165449990noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6211641144119614724.post-38502642033259752422013-01-07T12:08:00.001-08:002013-01-14T11:18:15.995-08:00Razor Clamming 101Did you all manage to survive the Christmas and New Year's mayhem? It was Bedlam at Legend Mansions as usual, so we took an offer from some good friends to go Razor Clamming for a few days and relax. How hard could that be?<br />
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We were told we didn't need any special equipment, just our wellies (rubber boots) and some warm clothes, and perhaps a 5 gallon bucket to hold our catch.<br />
Suitably impressed by the apparent ease at which we would obtain our catch, we packed our car with essentials, some food and a LOT of wine and headed off to Long Beach, at the bottom west corner of Washington state. We had booked a condo to share with our friends, and after an uneventful drive, we fronted up to our new home. The Lighthouse Resort turned out to be just about perfect for our needs, Indoor tennis (Mrs legend happy), Indoor Pool and Air Hockey (Legend Jr happy).<br />
The rooms were big enough to be comfortable, and situated right on the sand dunes with a knockout view of the Pacific waves that were crashing down onto the wide and flat beach that stretched for 25 miles end to end. <br />
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I know that, because a large sign at one end said, "Welcome to the World's longest beach, 25 miles end to end."<br />
<br />
Now I don't want to sound uncharitable, as it was a very nice beach, but the local council really do need to get out of the state a wee bit, as there are MUCH longer beaches in MANY other parts of the world, but I digress.<br />
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We all assembled at the appropriate time (1 hour before low tide), dressed in clothing befitting the razor clam experts we all felt we were after reading the instructions on the Clam Guns we were now sporting. Clam guns, for the uninitiated, are hollow tubes about 4" in diameter and about 2' long with a handle at 1 end and a small air hole near where your thumb would be if you were to hold it like bicycle handlebars.<br />
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As we left the comfort of the resort lighting, the head torches we had purchased revealed themselves to be totally inadequate. We blundered our way through the dunes, out onto a wide expanse of wet sand and searched in vain, bodies bowed to the ground, for the tell tale signs of razor clam hiding spots. I could only just make out two large dark blobs at the end of my body which, as soon as the 1st large tidal swell came rushing past me, turned out to be my feet. The water surged up my legs and flowed back down again, filling my new rubber boots my wife had bought me for Christmas. As I tried to run back up the beach, the water sloshed out of the top of each boot, and made wet fart like sounds with each step.<br />
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<br />
We stayed out for another hour before squelching our way back to the Condo for some liquid consolation. <br />
Our total haul in two hours? <br />
<br />
2.<br />
<br />
2 rather small, measly f**cking razor clams.<br />
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Hardly enough to share between 6 hungry clammers, so we raided the fridge for all the Christmas leftovers and plonked our damp bodies in front of the fire for the rest of the evening and vowed to equip ourselves with better lighting for the following evening.<br />
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After a wonderful walk the following day, along the beach in scorching sunshine (I know, we couldn't believe it either), we headed into town to buy some serious wattage. Our friend Richard, emerged from a camping store with a spotlight you could have seen in Japan. "This will do the trick," he confidently exclaimed, and ushered us all back into the truck for the journey home.<br />
That evening, armed with our new "There's no where to hide" Clam spotlight, we headed back across the dunes, ready to do battle.<br />
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<br />
It didn't make the slightest difference to our ability to see the clam holes. Not one jot. <br />
Frustrated, I stumbled off into the dark, muttering to myself like a demented homeless person, when I suddenly realized, there were two older gentlemen standing right behind me. "There's one there," one of the men said. "There's another one. Come on, get digging."<br />
It took a wee while to realize that they were talking to me and not to each other. "I can have this one?" I asked, half expecting them to disappear in a puff of smoke. The older, more grizzled one of the two just pointed with his clam gun, and said "you'd better get digging."<br />
Within 15 minutes I had my quota of 15. My two, new found weather worn friends stayed with us until we all had our quota, and then disappeared into the night just as quickly as they had appeared. They had a standard storm light which cast light sideways so you could see the shadows in the sand, instead of direct light (no shadows) and this made the clam holes visible. That's my story and I'm sticking to it.<br />
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Feeling a bit more triumphant and not so useless, we headed back to the condo to clean and cook our catch. The clams were cleaned as per instructions we had found on the Internet. <br />
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<br />
They seemed overly complicated to me. They could have just said,
"clean and cut out anything that looks like shit," and the results would
have been the same. <br />
Never mind. <br />
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We floured, egg washed, and bread crumbed the clean clams and popped them in hot fat for a minute. Drained and ready to serve with a chilled Viognier and some Wasabi sauce, they were sublime.<br />
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Happy New Year.Wally Bhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05992375461165449990noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6211641144119614724.post-37430407585980349492012-12-18T16:33:00.000-08:002012-12-18T16:33:18.450-08:00Fending off the Wolf at the door.<br />
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In an effort to keep the big bad wolf from our doorstep, or until my new consultancy business takes off, I have reverted to the age old trick of selling my services. <br />
<br />
No, not those ones, I'd give them away for free.<br />
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I have reverted back to my <u>other</u> age old profession of cooking. I have started giving private cooking classes in the homes of prospective clients. Classic French Cuisine, or Indian Cuisine are the main subjects. I also do cooking from the wild, depending on the season. I could be prevailed to venture further afield, especially after a few glasses of wine in me, however I know this will be unlikely. You can however, avail yourselves of my experience by joining a new blog, created to promote these new offerings.<br />
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<a href="http://thecookinyourkitchen.blogspot.com/2012/12/tis-season-to-empty-fridge.html">http://thecookinyourkitchen.blogspot.com/2012/12/tis-season-to-empty-fridge.html</a><br />
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Swing by and take a look, You might see some familiar faces.<br />
The Legend carries on in the same vein, so don't forget to visit there too. I'd miss you all if you went away.<br />
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Wally Bhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05992375461165449990noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6211641144119614724.post-63456243592429029252012-12-03T15:26:00.000-08:002012-12-03T15:26:25.392-08:00The Super Brain<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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In a rare moment of relaxation, Mrs legend and myself turned on the telly, while Legend Jr. was lying on the sofa with my old Macbook designing some lethal weapons with which to "see me off, for GOOD". We turned to channel 9 (PBS) to watch some Neuro Scientist type chappie describing things you could do to improve your brain, and let's face it, some of us in this room could do with a bit of that. Mrs Legend was writing all of this down feverishly as I lay back in my chair in a sort of stupor that overcomes me at night, after a few glasses of wine and a nice dinner. As the show was coming to an end, my wife asked me what the 2nd thing you could ask yourself was. I must have been looking at her in that blank expression I reserve for people who ask dumb questions. "You know," she snapped, "the bit that came after How am I feeling." <br />
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Without glancing up from his lethal project, Legend Jr. said "Is this feeling good to me?"<br />
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We both turned towards him in unison and asked in amazement, "What did you say?"<br />
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He repeated himself in a slightly more weary tone, then continued with his task.<br />
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He was right of course. That was exactly what the scientist chappie had said, over half an hour before.<br />
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No need for brain stimulus there then.<br />
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Note to self, "When Legend Jr is not listening, he really <u>IS</u> listening.<br />
Wally Bhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05992375461165449990noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6211641144119614724.post-57550473081924366642012-10-14T10:11:00.000-07:002012-10-14T10:11:40.548-07:00Icelandic Saga part 2<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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After a fairly comfortable night's sleep under my super soft duvet, I woke to the sound of rain, heavy rain, pounding off the corrugated iron exterior of the hotel. I wasn't particularly bothered, as I had booked a day trip to the Blue Lagoon the night before, and intended to float around in the hot mineral lake for the day. After taking out another top up mortgage, I went down to breakfast. I was in a much better mood than the previous night, and was willing to forgive the hotel for its money grabbing policies after viewing the offerings on the buffet table. I had two breakfasts (1 British and 1 European) which was going to have to last me the rest of the day, at least until dinner time. I wiped away the last crumbs of croissant from my mouth with the <strike>tablecloth</strike> napkin, and headed out to the waiting tour bus.<br />
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We drove for 45 minutes through a landscape of heavily fissured volcanic rock, a bit like Keith Richard's face, except for the covering of moss and lichen. The wind was blowing so hard, the rain obscured most of the view, but every now and then it would clear to reveal a landscape only Trolls could love. <br />
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At last, we pulled up in a large empty car park. The driver gave us instructions before opening the door and as soon as he confirmed we understood what was required of us, he opened it and stood back. A blast of Arctic air blew my hat off my head and sent it flying across the car park and off into the volcanic void. I struggled against the head wind towards the resort buildings, sans chapeau, until I eventually entered the sanctuary of the Spa building. Feeling a little disheveled, I handed my ticket to the po faced attendant and asked for a towel. "That will be 5 Euros," he said without blinking. <br />
"What about a bathrobe?" I asked.<br />
"Another 10 Euros." This time he was smirking. <br />
I explained to him that if they had pointed this out at the booking stage I could have brought my own, but all he did was shrug. <br />
<br />
You can't help feel that the Icelandic people are trying to recoup their gigantic financial losses, caused by their economic crash, from the unsuspecting tourists. But what can you do?<br />
<br />
Fuck all, that's what.<br />
<br />
I stood in another line to receive my spa bracelet. This is a tool that allows you to lock up your belongings, as well as acting as a direct conduit from your now impoverished bank account. "Use it to buy refreshments in the pool," I was advised, as I stepped out of the shelter of the spa into another world.<br />
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The smell of Sulphur wafted across my nostrils as I lunged forward out of the building into the biting cold and rain, slithering on the silicon mud by the side of the lake. My feet shot out horizontally in front of me and I entered the pool arse first. It was quite an entrance.<br />
Once I got my breath back, and a modicum of composure, I could see a vast stretch of baby blue water disappearing off into the distance. I could just make out a few heads bobbing in the opaque emulsion through the swirling mist that hovered just above the surface. Pots of green silicon mud were available to make your own face pack with, so I indulged, until I caught sight of my face in the window of a poolside bar. It looked as if someone with VERY bad congestion had just sneezed in my face, so I rinsed it off and contented myself with wallowing around like a Hippo.<br />
After a couple of hours, I'd had enough, so I hastened back inside the Spa with a little more caution than I had left it. <br />
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I arrived back in Reykjavik several hours earlier than I had intended. It was still raining, so I was at a loss for something to do that didn't involve further collateral damage to my bank account. As if by some act of kindness by the Icelandic Gods, the rain stopped and the sky cleared sufficiently to allow the sun to break through. I wandered around the back streets, seeing the city in a new light, so to speak, and thoroughly enjoyed the experience. I still think the city architects need a good slapping for erecting some of the most god awful buildings ever constructed, such as the City Hall below, but there were pockets of charm and warmth despite their best efforts.<br />
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I found a small and quirky seafood restaurant down in the old harbour, that boasted the best Lobster soup in the world. And it was. Served with fresh crusty bread, it was sublime. <br />
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I headed back to the hotel to pack for my departure the following day, feeling a little more warmth for the city, and a lot poorer for the experience.<br />
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Here's a few more shots, including some wonderful shoes seen in a shop window.<br />
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<br />Wally Bhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05992375461165449990noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6211641144119614724.post-6187624832986640792012-10-12T10:41:00.000-07:002012-10-12T10:43:02.440-07:00Puffin Burgers and other tales from Iceland. Part 1<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfzph0-1Q-qIlnOlOnkvbpsf7sSJf1BEuqbdcwF9-0j6M3E6Jr-3OIL7E2wM4hV1hthaLV5352FvRDxqnhd5GZwfUqRfZjvoTILf-7wYhP3oFn6mXSsXVqz0j123r4RyS2LOueIFusrvM/s1600/IMG_0238.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfzph0-1Q-qIlnOlOnkvbpsf7sSJf1BEuqbdcwF9-0j6M3E6Jr-3OIL7E2wM4hV1hthaLV5352FvRDxqnhd5GZwfUqRfZjvoTILf-7wYhP3oFn6mXSsXVqz0j123r4RyS2LOueIFusrvM/s320/IMG_0238.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hotel Centrum</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
I am now ensconced in a modern Icelandic hotel in Reykjavik en route back home to Seattle. <br />
I have been back home to the UK visiting family and friends, and a jolly good time was had by all, especially me. I was contemplating booking a few days stay over in Iceland on the way home, but I didn't think I would get away with it. My wife actually made the suggestion for me, bless her. "I'd never have thought of that," I lied, and promptly made the booking.<br />
<br />
It seemed like a good idea at the time. <br />
<br />
Visiting new countries for the 1st time always gets my juices flowing, so it was with some measure of excitement, I booked myself into the hotel and prepared for a night of exploration. My room was clean, if not somewhat insipid in decor, but it had a bed, plump looking duvet and a small closet to put my stuff in. It doesn't take much to make me happy.<br />
<br />
I headed out into the cold and persistent drizzle to explore my new surroundings. There seemed to be something strange about the place, but I couldn't quite put my finger on it. After the 3rd or 4th bar I peered into, it suddenly dawned on me that there wasn't anyone around. Apart from the very bored bar staff and haughty check in staff, the place was deserted. I pushed on up the main shopping street just in time to see the shop owners locking up and scuttling off home. This does not look promising, I thought to myself as I was, well..... by myself both literally and figuratively. <br />
I wandered about looking into the empty shops and strolling up side streets in a vain search for some night life. I was getting wet and cold and my frame of mind was turning sour, so I decided to head back to the hotel. I crossed the street and stood in a large dog turd on the pavement.<br />
<br />
"That's great, that's just f****ing great," I muttered, and promptly stood in another one as I was trying to wipe the 1st one off on some grass by the kerb. <br />
<br />
"Am I on F****ingSlimyDogturd street or something?" I yelled at no-one in particular, and stomped off down the hill towards the hotel in a foul temper, keeping my eyes firmly on the ground.<br />
To be honest, you could walk around Reykjavik all day with your eyes shut and not miss any sight worth seeing. Someone has done a good trade in selling concrete and corrugated iron, and the sort of paint you only find on the remnants shelf at the local hardware store. Grey is a popular color. It shows off the graffiti a treat.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Slimydogturd Street</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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At the bottom of the hill, I could hear the sound of laughter coming from a side street, so I popped my head round to see what was happening. There was a small cheery crowd emerging from a restaurant in the alley, so I thought it might be worth a look. I stood just inside the door and waited for someone to help me. I was there a good 10 minutes before I stuck my foot out and tripped up one of the waiters, I didn't actually, but I really wanted to.<br />
"Do you need something?" asked a tall person eventually. I say "person" as I was not sure of their gender. <br />
"Need something? Me need something? Why would you possibly think I might <strong>need</strong> something? I am, after all, only standing on the inside of your establishment, which rules out waiting for a bus or a flight."<br />
" A menu might be of some help," I suggested, calming down sufficiently to answer the question.<br />
The wait person disappeared for another ten minutes and then suddenly reappeared. "Do you need something?" it said.<br />
<br />
I need to digress here for a short while to describe an incident on the flight over from Seattle. I was sat on the aisle seat next to two Icelandic business men.They started to request bottles of wine before everyone had sat down, and they continued until the occupant of the middle seat passed out and spread across my seat like a jellyfish on the beach. His buddy had more stamina, and reached across the blob in the middle and punched my arm in a friendly sort of inebriated way. "Where are you from?" he asked. I told him, which prompted a whole barrage of questions about my life, and terminated in his opinion of American women. 15 minutes later, he woke up and leaned across his blob buddy again and asked me where I was from. I answered, but with a smidgen less patience this time. The questions continued until he passed out. A little later, he woke me up to ask me where I was from.<br />
<br />
"From the same f****ing place I was when you asked me the last time you moron, now leave me alone."<br />
<br />
I mention this as it seems to me that Icelandic people are a tad short in memory retention capabilities.<br />
<br />
So, back to my inattentive wait person.<br />
<br />
I asked if I could possibly have dinner. It sat me at the kitchen counter, a place I suppose for troublesome singles, and buggered off again for the rest of the night. I did get served, and had a very nice meal of Lamb Tenderloin with Beetroot Salad and Mushroom Sauce, all piled up in a little heap on my plate. A bit of an unusual combination, but good all the same. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The leaning tower</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
The menu did have a few Icelandic dishes, such as Puffin Burgers, and Minke Whale Steaks, so mine wasn´t too strange.<br />
I had to lasso my waiter to get the bill, then I took out a bank loan and a mortgage to pay for it and sauntered home feeling a little lighter in the wallet.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">You ate my sister</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
When I got to the hotel, I sat in the bar to have a beer, and looked up at the wall. Two very menacing looking sheep were staring down at me, which made me feel guilty for my menu choice, so I turned round to see this.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxXAryMyNZeXWxFYmNCKHBLey6KBbI5lRsSYgZPCjH0_q34FF4syY9flMYEGJ24JO15sniE73CLsz9H1RBsikv9b7wkjftD5XpBq6h7IWYt5c6vXtlqgK9p22jrrArMqhSBJXKNqjrwCY/s1600/IMG_0251.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxXAryMyNZeXWxFYmNCKHBLey6KBbI5lRsSYgZPCjH0_q34FF4syY9flMYEGJ24JO15sniE73CLsz9H1RBsikv9b7wkjftD5XpBq6h7IWYt5c6vXtlqgK9p22jrrArMqhSBJXKNqjrwCY/s320/IMG_0251.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">All my kids have been eaten too</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
I gave up and stood in front of the help desk for a long time until the young man lifted up his head and acknowledged I was there. I asked for the Internet password.<br />
"You have to pay for Wifi sir."<br />
"Your kidding," I said.<br />
"I'm afraid not," the clerk said, and turned his back on me to admire himself in the mirror.<br />
"Do I have to pay for cleaning the carpets?"<br />
<br />
He smiled one of those "you think your so funny" sort of smiles and replied that I did not, so I wiped my shoes on their nice new rug, and went to bed.Wally Bhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05992375461165449990noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6211641144119614724.post-2056542070453412312012-09-21T14:24:00.000-07:002012-09-21T14:40:50.446-07:00Grow your own HestiaIn Hestia's <a href="http://hestiaslarder.blogspot.com/2012/09/hestiahas-t-competition.html#more">last Blog</a>, she threw down the gauntlet so to speak. Here's my entry.<br />
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">My Grandfather Rede was a colossus, in everything except
height. Standing at only 5’5”, he still managed to pack an awful lot of talent
into his small frame. He left school at 13 to take care of his
younger sisters and brothers after his dad died. Despite fighting for his
country during the Great War and being invalided out as a result of a gas attack
in Verdun, working down the coal mines in Northumberland and being the
breadwinner for a large family, he found time to read profusely, listen to his
classical records, embroider exquisite flowers onto Irish linen, and keep the
most beautiful garden and vegetable allotment, full of prize winning Dahlias
and tomatoes.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">It is to the last achievements on this list that I want to
discuss, as it is his tomato prowess that has caused more distress in my life on a regular basis
than any thing else.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I can’t smell tomatoes
on the vine without having flashbacks to his large greenhouse and him peering
over his glasses to inspect his bountiful harvest. My Mom inherited his
gardening talents, but successfully failed to pass any of it on to me. To be
honest, I had no interest in gardening until I bought my own house in my late
twenties.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It would have been difficult
to engage in gardening prior to that, as I was fully engaged in perfecting the
life of an itinerant ski bum in Europe.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">My first house in Stony Stratford, England, had a small back
yard. For some reason which totally escapes me now, I decided to try and live
up to my Grandfather's name and be self-sufficient on the tomato front. That was
my first mistake.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I soon realized that being away from home 2 weeks out of 4
every month was not conducive to rearing tomatoes, or any other living organism
for that matter, except mold. I could have supplied our local women’s institute
with a fresh supply of dried flowers on a regular basis on account of my extraordinary
ability to turn vibrant living things into desiccated and brittle structures
for the spiders to attach their webs to.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I rented a part of an old manor once, with a wonderful
southerly exposure which I thought would be perfect for growing tomatoes. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">It was.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I can’t remember ever being so excited about any of my
achievements before or after, so you can imagine my horror one morning when I
heard the mooing of cattle outside my bedroom window. I peered out across the
garden, only to see the best part of the neighboring farm’s Friesian herd standing
side by side on top of where my tomatoes used to be.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I ran downstairs completely starkers and
dashed out the back door screaming like a banshee. The garden gate had been
left open and as the farmer was transferring his herd from the field to the
milking barn, one of them must have decided to make a detour. Of course, they
all followed. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">It is difficult to express complete outrage when you have no
clothes on, so I don’t think the farmer and his little band of helpers were too
concerned. In fact, I distinctly heard muffled guffawing retreating down the
lane as I sat in the middle of the carnage in total disbelief. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I have managed to transfer my inability to grow tomatoes to
my current garden on bucolic Vashon Island. Despite many attempts, I have still
not managed to emulate my Grandfather’s success. Not even close. I can see a
small patch of garden from where I sit. It holds a small crop of tomatoes, some
with bottom end rot, some stunted and tough skinned like shriveled walnuts, and
some that appear to be just perfect. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Maybe next<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>year, if
the deer don’t get them first.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Wally Bhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05992375461165449990noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6211641144119614724.post-33237207933908581752012-08-22T12:12:00.000-07:002012-08-28T08:23:48.951-07:00Breaking news<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh48cpBgR9-hAZU0LwkJHV3OVv685JAcowUM7DjKs5EiyD69ZPU956lHETP8WNNKdX2HOp5WkdmDDbfusVkGfJqvU3y_HwM0v4FOYCLZedaLJfqbEX3jENvexY5esfFc4DYTbC2BYUp39A/s1600/LIHOL.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="358" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh48cpBgR9-hAZU0LwkJHV3OVv685JAcowUM7DjKs5EiyD69ZPU956lHETP8WNNKdX2HOp5WkdmDDbfusVkGfJqvU3y_HwM0v4FOYCLZedaLJfqbEX3jENvexY5esfFc4DYTbC2BYUp39A/s640/LIHOL.png" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
What started out as a little research to help a Blogger friend publish her own book of poetry, has ended in the publication of a small selection of blogs from my "legend in his own lunchtime" ramblings. I thought I could help best by going through the process, and rather than create something from scratch, I just copied a few existing scribbles into <a href="https://www.createspace.com/pub/l/general_value.do?rewrite=true&ref=173425&utm_id=4284">Create Space</a>. <br />
<br />
The result?<br />
<br />
A small but exquisitely crafted beer mat or coaster perhaps, or emergency bathroom tissue supplies, fire lighters or a wedge for a wobbly table. <br />
<br />
Take your pick. <br />
<br />
It is available on Amazon, both USA and UK, and priced at the princely sum of *cough cough splutter.*<br />
<br />
It could come in useful to rid yourself of pesky Christmas present commitments. Send this and you will promptly be removed from the recipients Christmas list.<br />
<br />
I have 4 copies coming soon and will send them to the 1st 4 commenters.<br />
<br />
I am just having a cup of tea before the onslaught of book tour requests come pouring in *sits back and waits*<br />
<br />
I may be here a long time.<br />
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<br />Wally Bhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05992375461165449990noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6211641144119614724.post-53430127683436217152012-07-23T16:26:00.001-07:002012-07-23T17:51:06.777-07:00Now, where was I?<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipxbkxemGY6szsCAYEIwnOLQusznrXtZ6IWCBjGHdaC1B9tHIcblHBa4cFCwuEXmkXdV_Xq3XbVNqvrlqvSXwi88zakUYGA0X_44bio4aSrni9p73J8b9oKqAaSpvRQN5T3wqCL6wOBwg/s1600/DSC_0123.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipxbkxemGY6szsCAYEIwnOLQusznrXtZ6IWCBjGHdaC1B9tHIcblHBa4cFCwuEXmkXdV_Xq3XbVNqvrlqvSXwi88zakUYGA0X_44bio4aSrni9p73J8b9oKqAaSpvRQN5T3wqCL6wOBwg/s320/DSC_0123.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">NW California coast</td></tr>
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You might remember that I was recovering from a family camping trip in my last Blog, so you will be somewhat surprised to learn that I have been at it again, sleeping on a hard surface that is. No sooner than the words, "That's enough camping for me for a life time,"emerged from my lips, our good friends invited us to share a campsite in Northern California for a week. They go to the same spot every year and were meeting long time friends, and just happened to have s space available. Mrs Legend agreed immediately, which I didn't mind, as she never gets time off from her work for more than 2 days. I'm safe agreeing here, I thought. I'll show enthusiasm, despite a 700 mile drive in each direction. Two days later, she e-mailed me to start loading up for our impromptu road trip.</div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh20db4rqPDvMV0MObm6ZtvTyGRduVz25u09MwcVJ5UA4aawLZTNKe7_AB4u5WGlbRSk62m4sX79_yWshIfXHJHpALW1kOnCNNtareGtHUw1kyNjvumPHbMlyefs3EkPXy11khrAaBF7rk/s1600/DSC_0230.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh20db4rqPDvMV0MObm6ZtvTyGRduVz25u09MwcVJ5UA4aawLZTNKe7_AB4u5WGlbRSk62m4sX79_yWshIfXHJHpALW1kOnCNNtareGtHUw1kyNjvumPHbMlyefs3EkPXy11khrAaBF7rk/s320/DSC_0230.JPG" width="214" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Crater lake</td></tr>
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If there is one thing guaranteed in my life, it is that I cannot guarantee anything involving my wife. <br />
<br />
I should know better.<br />
<br />
Well, it was absolutely spectacular. Our camp site was a disused homestead in the middle of the Humboldt National Redwood Park at Albee Creek and a 2 night stay on the way back up at the Crater Lake National Park. The folks we met through our friends were all foodies. Dinner started at 5 with cocktails, appetizers and a full blown gourmet's feast. I'll let the photos speak for themselves. <br />
<br />
The sleeping wasn't too much of a problem on account of the alcohol consumption, although getting up for a pee 4 times a night in a campground known for its bear visits can be a wee tad unnerving.<br />
Legend Jr found a friend and was adopted by several families so we didn't see much of him. On a side note, our bathroom in the bedroom has no door, so doing anything in there is basically a spectator sport. Our wee man has grown up helping his Mommy locate her tampons and towels and handing them to her while she is sitting on the pot. While emptying one of Mommy's bags in the car so he could have something to put all his forest finds in, a large pack of "sticks" fell on the floor. His little friend asked him what the sticks were for. "You don't want to know," he said with an air of worldly weariness, "you really don't want to know."<br />
Anyhow, on that note, I'll finish by conceding that I might be open to further trips like that, on the understanding that we are with the same crew. <br />
<br />
I can't remember laughing so much, or eating and drinking so much since we got married.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJM_bPqZS6PeRgs-nh8HBCT2d1tJhg9hgKn8ZSl4wgV1t-XL-K_lovz8klwtPPqN00DYDFvPZ91uIfBdh9qYfwLZcGEOr9cPnSQ4WLRVIsEd0az4LAzYRyjwktwnMv1B9y7j-q-n3O_vE/s1600/DSC_0136.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJM_bPqZS6PeRgs-nh8HBCT2d1tJhg9hgKn8ZSl4wgV1t-XL-K_lovz8klwtPPqN00DYDFvPZ91uIfBdh9qYfwLZcGEOr9cPnSQ4WLRVIsEd0az4LAzYRyjwktwnMv1B9y7j-q-n3O_vE/s320/DSC_0136.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Unusual debris from the Japanese Tsunami</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaa91eQHAD60VPTow0Jdv81a0VQpGJ51UHWIBW1Sd8vZwq3KoK3KPMMBGXViJcVKzX_A6gPC64eG8mPkF3uc6D8L8uREs33JtmVjXgKrKFFBqkzXDKrE8hyphenhyphen8yC75Gwdi0zuCJO57pW76Y/s1600/DSC_0451.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaa91eQHAD60VPTow0Jdv81a0VQpGJ51UHWIBW1Sd8vZwq3KoK3KPMMBGXViJcVKzX_A6gPC64eG8mPkF3uc6D8L8uREs33JtmVjXgKrKFFBqkzXDKrE8hyphenhyphen8yC75Gwdi0zuCJO57pW76Y/s320/DSC_0451.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I did find this beautiful wrought and cast iron gilded tea strainer in the<br />
blacksmiths shop, so I bought it for my sweetie for our upcoming anniversary</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNon98IJn1Sx4D0rdFTpWfoSET0d6UrJFbTp3OgPehjTHuLZ9OzvTo-BMWbpDMd-6UPFjiUWtfBVC8xkH0j0pjQ2R7uetS7x0UoS7BH48z7WnJsZJvpPo8DneEeLZcw9FzRK215XSwE-Q/s1600/DSC_0156.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNon98IJn1Sx4D0rdFTpWfoSET0d6UrJFbTp3OgPehjTHuLZ9OzvTo-BMWbpDMd-6UPFjiUWtfBVC8xkH0j0pjQ2R7uetS7x0UoS7BH48z7WnJsZJvpPo8DneEeLZcw9FzRK215XSwE-Q/s320/DSC_0156.JPG" width="214" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Amazing Blacksmith's store in Victorian town near the campsite</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitNxKTIl_JZmn8jY4-YhOxB4XPxrNGtC8cIuG4Ma24IkDteg3YkX6UJ3TJ_05rNmS5F8n2GugsbxL8WRlsQcuEHn34fn39YvoMLOQFf5jeDWOx96USm-lC5lX5VTFauxkjby-u_30tbGY/s1600/DSC_0172.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitNxKTIl_JZmn8jY4-YhOxB4XPxrNGtC8cIuG4Ma24IkDteg3YkX6UJ3TJ_05rNmS5F8n2GugsbxL8WRlsQcuEHn34fn39YvoMLOQFf5jeDWOx96USm-lC5lX5VTFauxkjby-u_30tbGY/s320/DSC_0172.JPG" width="214" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hmm, I could fit all my Legos in here<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjg1FP65q3yP6OjzyDjzcFkWvlB-YtsMxZsDxTpKQGd-AEwj4TQrOkUrRiU-nGuGggDUu3vejoojxHnVD6IQDa4MBDev3mr9TfOkbWNnuFGLZGje8Uf3_fT5NhbqYRKJdVBvITuwMJ8-yY/s1600/DSC_0174.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjg1FP65q3yP6OjzyDjzcFkWvlB-YtsMxZsDxTpKQGd-AEwj4TQrOkUrRiU-nGuGggDUu3vejoojxHnVD6IQDa4MBDev3mr9TfOkbWNnuFGLZGje8Uf3_fT5NhbqYRKJdVBvITuwMJ8-yY/s320/DSC_0174.JPG" width="214" /></a></div>
Treebeard and a Hobbit<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1BMicxt4mFAHJCu17qsv7a04TMMZW2_B6X_z9gLGv2j9-TowtK5DxFJkcGd3ZowIxD8R6-2a0-0R9dmKeJOucYP96o_82-d0TWvhyrGzGnalUWWSgrJoTY75tcRtPAl69ZR_Qd5L-1_c/s1600/DSC_0183.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1BMicxt4mFAHJCu17qsv7a04TMMZW2_B6X_z9gLGv2j9-TowtK5DxFJkcGd3ZowIxD8R6-2a0-0R9dmKeJOucYP96o_82-d0TWvhyrGzGnalUWWSgrJoTY75tcRtPAl69ZR_Qd5L-1_c/s320/DSC_0183.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
No dehydrated shit for these guys<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgU7Tj7Y-mkvk9Ze16eCSRNvLIOJ91Mh7rUObVjiqaPAcamsIzMYJyhI9UZNTg50UOUTJF8011BJ-nCz8yuYgz6UdSC8axUSovfIoYb18kMqGwM8aq_MKgcQEB4LBKVJVKYL0a2zLc6rdA/s1600/DSC_0190.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgU7Tj7Y-mkvk9Ze16eCSRNvLIOJ91Mh7rUObVjiqaPAcamsIzMYJyhI9UZNTg50UOUTJF8011BJ-nCz8yuYgz6UdSC8axUSovfIoYb18kMqGwM8aq_MKgcQEB4LBKVJVKYL0a2zLc6rdA/s320/DSC_0190.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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Caveman BBQ. They were amazing (Licks Lips)</div>
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</tbody></table>Wally Bhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05992375461165449990noreply@blogger.com23tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6211641144119614724.post-6717995117151387222012-06-18T12:57:00.000-07:002012-06-18T12:57:54.723-07:00Sticks and stones may break my bones, but camping is going to kill me....<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivuMU248_A6BgAYQTBg_BRYQD9HS99-1ZhxRwEzogrUrlUMoUEGbnkJl6bN1Gdq6epuZk8q6JjDP7rdIvMw5sKyr5emWbDDmJQAFTXFDEHulthj68ltTG0qun6tQFuVO2iTq5oEpv0pis/s1600/Vashon+Island-20120615-00245.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivuMU248_A6BgAYQTBg_BRYQD9HS99-1ZhxRwEzogrUrlUMoUEGbnkJl6bN1Gdq6epuZk8q6JjDP7rdIvMw5sKyr5emWbDDmJQAFTXFDEHulthj68ltTG0qun6tQFuVO2iTq5oEpv0pis/s320/Vashon+Island-20120615-00245.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Legend Jr and his weapon stockpile</td></tr>
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<br />
As is usual this time of year, my lovely wife asks in that way women have that really means, "I'm only asking out of courtesy, but you really have no choice" sort of way, whether or not we should go camping this weekend. In anticipation of the suffering that is about to ensue, my muscles start to immediately cramp and my spine and joints all shout out in unison "NNNOOOOoooooooooo." <br />
<br />
Resistance is futile, so I head down to the garage to collect all of the debris from our last camping <strike>nightmare</strike> expedition and start to pack the car. <br />
The forecast is for sun with a few showers, so not too bad for the West Coast in June.<br />
As we load up, I ask my wife if she has packed a warm jacket, to which she replies in the affirmative. Remember this piece of information for later.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUAtZPcDwp-SDpNpmYk9yqnEpNHpyVzUUbDkBCxJmenSgw8tRwk4l1Y1ytVzL28iu8vlJ8Y2HL0XiubbAcYnBfmGdPAV3zY7Tt_ZKDNZUKzSgI45LVfl6epY8RSeiYs-LLWsHlE5f_yfQ/s1600/Vashon+Island-20120615-00243.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUAtZPcDwp-SDpNpmYk9yqnEpNHpyVzUUbDkBCxJmenSgw8tRwk4l1Y1ytVzL28iu8vlJ8Y2HL0XiubbAcYnBfmGdPAV3zY7Tt_ZKDNZUKzSgI45LVfl6epY8RSeiYs-LLWsHlE5f_yfQ/s320/Vashon+Island-20120615-00243.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mt Rainier and Californian Poppies</td></tr>
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<br />
Before we head off, we have to pick up Legend Jr from his school day trip at a lighthouse on the island. Against my better judgement, I had offered to chaperon for the morning, so I packed a few <strike>assault rifles and some handcuffs</strike> treats for bribing the natives and headed off to Point Robinson.<br />
I arrived before they did, and was just admiring the view across the sound to Mt Rainer, when the school bus chugged into view and disgorged 45 screaming 8 year old Banshees, and several already shell shocked teachers, into the park.<br />
<br />
The beaches in this part of the world are full of trees and broken limbs swept ashore by the high winds, which make an excellent medium for building forts, and in this case, army camps. <br />
The actual reason for coming down was to tour the lighthouse with resident Keeper, Captain Joe. However, this was somewhat eclipsed by the need to defend America from an invading Army. All sticks longer than 2" were turned into pistols, rifles, bazookas. Short stubby pieces of wood became hand grenades, and within minutes of their arrival, the 3rd World War had started.<br />
<br />
The enemy appeared to be Sweden. Don't ask, I don't know.<br />
<br />
After maybe ten hours (it may have been shorter, as time in the middle of battle seems to just stand still), the order was given to negotiate a truce and come and listen to Captain Joe deliver the rules for surviving a lighthouse visit. At the end of his speech, he asked if there were any questions. One hand shot up immediately.<br />
"Please captain, can we take sticks inside the lighthouse?"<br />
"Yes," was the misguided captain's answer.<br />
"Next question, yes , you over there."<br />
"How big a stick can we take in?"<br />
The Captain gestured approximately 6"- 8".<br />
"Any more questions?" the captain asked with an air of inevitability<br />
"Can I go and get a stick if I don't have one?"<br />
I can't remember if the Captain answered that one or not as I could already see his back disappearing off to do his duty.<br />
The truce was called off and hostilities began again unabated.<br />
<br />
After lunch, I managed to pry Legend Jr's hands off a large branch (sorry, bazooka) and guided him into the car with it, a bit like a cattle prod. Several hours of cursing and complaining ( and that was just me) later, we arrived at Fort Worden and set up camp on the beach. The rain was just starting to be felt, so I went back to the car to get my jacket. "MMMM, that's strange," I muttered to myself. It was here a few minutes ago. I was just about to look in the tent, when I spotted a familiar looking figure coming from the bathroom block wearing a jacket suspiciously like mine.<br />
<br />
"I'm glad you remembered to bring a jacket sweetie, it looks like rain," my wife informed me without the slightest hint of irony, as she sat next to the fire and poured herself a large glass of wine.<br />
<br />
"Move over," I said. " I think this is going to be a long weekend.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhN6ouZUHsVfClViiPmNoZkJ9IX68i__rwkInztbv1j1xV-ePZxKzf1yGgHsR9xBO2noUskOuO8ubUi25PKeyWpQc0bWBlJOJlEFpz8bdK0gdv2OSd23GO8fL6UiYC-VNVYhkfLHFJhpuc/s1600/Discovery+Bay-20120617-00260.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhN6ouZUHsVfClViiPmNoZkJ9IX68i__rwkInztbv1j1xV-ePZxKzf1yGgHsR9xBO2noUskOuO8ubUi25PKeyWpQc0bWBlJOJlEFpz8bdK0gdv2OSd23GO8fL6UiYC-VNVYhkfLHFJhpuc/s320/Discovery+Bay-20120617-00260.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Breakfast in the making</td></tr>
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We did have a great trip, as it turns out, but that will be fodder for another blog.<br />
<br />Wally Bhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05992375461165449990noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6211641144119614724.post-7178305314190112052012-05-29T13:03:00.000-07:002012-05-29T13:03:31.817-07:00A comedy of errorsThis weekend in the USA was a 3 day weekend on account of Memorial Day. On Sunday morning, my wife checked the weather forecast for the next few days and was upset to learn that the previous two day's beautiful weather was not going to continue. A frantic search online for accommodation in any place other than this side of the Cascade Mountains ensued. Now when I say that this is a very popular time to go on vacation in the USA, it is an understatement. It is, apparently, much easier and more pleasant to celebrate your war dead and maimed when lying on a beach somewhere drinking Pina Coladas.<br />
We found two possible locations, both in the same area. As we are allegedly trying to save money on account of me "not working," we chose the cheaper by $100 option, which was a motel a short 3 hours drive over Snoqualmie Pass and down into the Tyrolean Trompe L'Oeil called Leavenworth. If you can stop your gagging reflex working overload on account of the signs for" Das Copy Shoppe" and Das Waffle Haus" etc, it can be a great place to stay. Nestled in the mountains, between two beautiful rivers, the outdoor opportunities are fantastic. Not to mention the wineries and brew houses that have mushroomed to take advantage of the very large crowds (large in number and large in girth) that swarm here every weekend.<br />
We checked in at the Icicle Inn, a Best Western hotel with a decidedly tacky face lift. "MMMM", I said, as we unloaded the car, "this place needs to update their photos on their website." Legend Jnr was already checking out the pool, one of the principle reasons for our choice. I wouldn't say that he enjoys the water exactly, but I have noticed some decidedly fishy looking openings on the side of his neck.<br />
We made our way up the stairs, past a wooden bear dressed in lederhosen. It might have been one of the guests actually. I wasn't paying too much attention. You know that sort of dread that creeps up on you when you can feel your sweetheart's icy stare drilling holes in your back? By now, I was starting to look like a Colander.<br />
The room was awful and stank of cleaning fluids. "Let's call that other place", I suggested helpfully, "the one that requires you to take out a mortgage."<br />
Fortunately for me, they had a room available, but it was another $100 more than it had been 4 hours earlier. After a short and friendly argument about how they had elevated their price to take advantage of my suffering, they finally gave in to my pleading and tears, and offered it at the original price.<br />
We checked out, loaded up the car and dragged a screaming 8 year old out of the lobby. "I WANT TO STAY HERE IT'S GOT CRAZY GOLF AND A POOL AND A SWEET SHOP AND I'M NOT LEAVING".<br />
I wedged him into the back seat while avoiding the flailing arms and legs, and told him about the wonderful swimming pool where we were going. It is MUCH better, I assured him.<br />
The place is a wonderful retreat called <a href="http://www.sleepinglady.com/">The Sleeping Lady</a>, set amongst the Aspens and Pine trees along the Icicle Creek. It is full board, with fantastic food and an essential (for Daddy anyway)outside bar and fire pit. We've been several times before (in more affluent times), so I was very confident that he would indeed love it. <br />
After signing my life away at the check in, I quipped that I couldn't wait to go for a swim to relieve some of my tension. "Oh, I'm sorry" the clerk said, "the pool is closed for renovations. They should have been ready this week, but you know what contractors are like". <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEik2Q_pIQ_bJqDBNY2n4dFFTcbJ0hDbrcv1_fBtUf59SBS87cxdTWc7-hB_s7M-KxrEiHqlOnHu_TIu_MrnzxWHCmUSYryMD7Xv_s1k3Jg9aD6c4oRLcjE_-18hi7Ta9xXZTt2KfgD7-Jc/s1600/DSC_0069.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEik2Q_pIQ_bJqDBNY2n4dFFTcbJ0hDbrcv1_fBtUf59SBS87cxdTWc7-hB_s7M-KxrEiHqlOnHu_TIu_MrnzxWHCmUSYryMD7Xv_s1k3Jg9aD6c4oRLcjE_-18hi7Ta9xXZTt2KfgD7-Jc/s320/DSC_0069.JPG" width="214" /></a></div>
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She might have said something else, but by now I was sitting on the floor with my head in my hands, drooling into my shirt and contemplating how this news was going to be taken. "Mr Bell......hello... Mr Bell, are you wanting to continue with registration....or should we call an ambulance.?" <br />
We did register, I did get an earful, and fortunately I survived. The hot soaking pool was open, but it was the new games room that saved my bacon. <br />
Here are a few photos of the place. If you are in this area, it is worth taking a look.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLDBLa1XNRnatoIv2UXamhc9boJ3fFW7OEFVOfLWO_Tpvrp0kzXRgtaPE0c85eizxmbCRaE-bw1Xn_NVtvPMyvhMQZpQ2UCP46Szh6SAjeEu1DDtZDxuN7Sc6oVEh-iZa-wp4dhyphenhyphenSHx-g/s1600/DSC_0065.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLDBLa1XNRnatoIv2UXamhc9boJ3fFW7OEFVOfLWO_Tpvrp0kzXRgtaPE0c85eizxmbCRaE-bw1Xn_NVtvPMyvhMQZpQ2UCP46Szh6SAjeEu1DDtZDxuN7Sc6oVEh-iZa-wp4dhyphenhyphenSHx-g/s320/DSC_0065.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Snug as a bug</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhF1LZt3boeSH2rca0ooXMdtX5CFJ01_bDyzwyixOOh8Nqb4KkDmJsjXsKtXxS7gaGnlz8pDZg8r1BQnHXvtpoMZ9My9u6u62MVZ4coUcsoV2Z1c68nOEfQZlxBYqIEAGhTxT0VW_rTyhE/s1600/DSC_0072.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhF1LZt3boeSH2rca0ooXMdtX5CFJ01_bDyzwyixOOh8Nqb4KkDmJsjXsKtXxS7gaGnlz8pDZg8r1BQnHXvtpoMZ9My9u6u62MVZ4coUcsoV2Z1c68nOEfQZlxBYqIEAGhTxT0VW_rTyhE/s320/DSC_0072.JPG" width="214" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Soaking pool nestled amongst the trees</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqAE5NUSgW-OdfuYW4TiAD79Z1ZwFZQ6aOnZA4HKeuo4d41u70uXR9ehNKlnbX-jcEHxYIQR64cQ7uJC69o9meSfjfY-cmaFXoZRvzHAFveIRsC7XHydCeTwbS1BnSB319EuBRXoMJhE0/s1600/DSC_0080.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqAE5NUSgW-OdfuYW4TiAD79Z1ZwFZQ6aOnZA4HKeuo4d41u70uXR9ehNKlnbX-jcEHxYIQR64cQ7uJC69o9meSfjfY-cmaFXoZRvzHAFveIRsC7XHydCeTwbS1BnSB319EuBRXoMJhE0/s320/DSC_0080.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dining and breakfast room</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2-qS5BX8KjU9WTiR43KF3NUYhJ79oQRW7UePyDpe03lvS2LB_HMeQOHUT8gKB5ejYXtwd8JHgS-t2OfbbK8AsXvQJYq-1p9pN1nNSG_WOBSDuL5UFGz9OnFGsTUTZrzMupEmqUvrBrWs/s1600/DSC_0085.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2-qS5BX8KjU9WTiR43KF3NUYhJ79oQRW7UePyDpe03lvS2LB_HMeQOHUT8gKB5ejYXtwd8JHgS-t2OfbbK8AsXvQJYq-1p9pN1nNSG_WOBSDuL5UFGz9OnFGsTUTZrzMupEmqUvrBrWs/s320/DSC_0085.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One of the many options from the menu.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqHs-n7TneJeoOb31Fy-qtkvsU481-oDw2_fV4OOJyK8JU_2mXDZsLiHN-Nth9dYUqyeSzOy1c9QrlEecvpl1k1Q-eZSJbFtaL5LILuQJdZ36hwJsidtXKxJ1P2kEEZmYv6k1Kjq8YTlg/s1600/DSC_0097.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqHs-n7TneJeoOb31Fy-qtkvsU481-oDw2_fV4OOJyK8JU_2mXDZsLiHN-Nth9dYUqyeSzOy1c9QrlEecvpl1k1Q-eZSJbFtaL5LILuQJdZ36hwJsidtXKxJ1P2kEEZmYv6k1Kjq8YTlg/s320/DSC_0097.JPG" width="214" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.chihuly.com/">Chihuly</a> glass sculptre</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuyncqtb3rwhhHtRIZyFhWacZVrRTdNQbzjs5FLf3UKQesDSqUGc9Gj_Tf44rs7z7i1NOgoTbg9H7-1OfJLwt6lyd2cAGcZ2vqqxfZswxsBivPvJ6fMrs5kdhA4p6sC33ZpGgw31ZpeGE/s1600/DSC_0064.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuyncqtb3rwhhHtRIZyFhWacZVrRTdNQbzjs5FLf3UKQesDSqUGc9Gj_Tf44rs7z7i1NOgoTbg9H7-1OfJLwt6lyd2cAGcZ2vqqxfZswxsBivPvJ6fMrs5kdhA4p6sC33ZpGgw31ZpeGE/s320/DSC_0064.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our little cabin</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Wally Bhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05992375461165449990noreply@blogger.com21tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6211641144119614724.post-2660727715265402142012-05-21T08:58:00.000-07:002012-05-21T08:58:25.650-07:00Smile please<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Look what my girls left for me yesterday morning. Small stuff i know, but it made my day.</div>
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</div>Wally Bhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05992375461165449990noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6211641144119614724.post-61305309671558597312012-05-04T14:47:00.001-07:002012-05-04T14:47:34.242-07:00A busy two weeks<div style="text-align: center;">
<img height="282" id="il_fi" src="http://www.absence360.com/Portals/26171/images/solving%20the%20fatigue%20issue%20with%20workforce%20management%20-resized-600.jpg" style="padding-bottom: 8px; padding-right: 8px; padding-top: 8px;" width="400" /></div>
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Now, where was I?<br />
<br />
Losing track of time methinks. <br />
<br />
I have been so busy lately. Not in the productive sense of the word busy, rather more in the lollingaroundinthepubandsoacializing sort of way. Don't get me wrong, I have been a <strong>wee</strong> bit productive, but basing this output on Pareto's rule, this could only equate to about 20% of all energy expended.<br />
<br />
Not in any particular order, I have been a guest on a Business Radio Show in Seattle <strike>bullshitting </strike> talking my way through a whole hour of questions about Apple's business practices and their labor compliance failures...... followed by a further hour at the pub.<br />
<br />
The Pitman Painters play by Lee Hall, is now showing in Seattle. I wrote to the Theatre to tell them my dad was one of the Ashington Art Group and I have some of his paintings. "Would they like to see them?" I asked. I was invited to a nice lunch with the cast of the show and we talked for about another hour with a reporter from the <a href="http://seattletimes.nwsource.com/html/thearts/2018013110_pitmen22.html">Seattle Times</a> ..........before stopping off at the pub. <br />
<br />
This celebrity status is thirsty work.<br />
<br />
This last 10 days has been a whirlwind of activity. My friend <a href="http://www.terrydochertyguitars.com/">Terry Docherty</a> came over with his partner Annie. Terry makes all of my instruments, and has made a few for other artists on the Island, including <a href="http://www.kateggleston.com/home.html">Kat Eggleston</a> and <a href="http://steveamsden.com/Home/">Steve Amsden</a> (of old farts fame). <br />
<br />
Well, we had to go out and play and drink. It would have been churlish not to. We closed down two venues, before heading back home to resume until the wee hours of the morning.<br />
<br />
I have one more night to go at a lovely cafe/bar on the island called the <a href="https://www.facebook.com/pages/Snapdragon/381399861888784">Snapdragon</a>, before I curl up in a dark hole somewhere and get some SLEEP.Wally Bhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05992375461165449990noreply@blogger.com4