Monthly Archives

March 2007

Hungry wife

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Hungry wife, originally uploaded by benaston.

Friday night had really snuck (nb pp of sneak) on us like a bear hunting salmon. One minute it was Monday to Friday, and the next thing, we have no house and it’s the weekend. Solution – hatch cunning plan.

The plan was to visit Fulham’s finest – Pizza Palace. However, a quick ‘drive by’ revealed that its palatial connotations were entirely misplaced. Confounded and confused, we boldly proceeded to take another ‘drive by’, which to the untrained eye may have appeared to be an innocent and little hearted amble but which actually concealed a highly intricate Bauer surveillance technique. Yet again, it was clear that all there was little left of the palace.

Desperate for pizza, we opted for another bold option – Porcini on Fulham Palace Road. Suspiciously empty and so small that once we’d walked through the doors, there really was no way of escape. I nipped to mix and match to purchase a cheeky red to make use of the byob and we were away. Me – chrorizo; Wife – Shrooms.

P.S. Excellent pizza

I like London

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I like London, originally uploaded by benaston.

It is St. Patricks Day. Or at least it was yesterday. That’s why we were celebrating today. I received this lovely, I love London badge. There was music and dancing. Very Irish. Guinness.

Fridays Peanuts

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fridays peanuts, originally uploaded by benaston.

At least I can feel that I achieved something today. What else are you supposed to do on a Friday?

The Crown (Ampney Crucis) has lost its jewels

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It has been far too long since I escaped from the fresh air of London to the idyll of country living for a day – and what better way than to visit the Grandparents in Ampney Crucis, conveniently situated in the Cotswolds.

Surprisingly, (yes, even more so than the Daily Mail style of this post) we even got there early and so had plenty of time for pre-lunch drinks and discussions about life, neighbours’ septic tank installations, and cannabis.

We lunched at the Crown, Ampney Crucis. Normally this is a delight, but an hour after ordering a Chicken Supreme and seeing no sign of it, I began to wonder if the Crown really had lost its Jewels. A bread roll later and the food arrived, and as supreme as my chicken was, there was a general consensus that the Crown should be avoided in future for Saturday visits. Delicious banof pie though.

The picture below depicts myself dressed in Grandpa’s finest car washing regalia complete with obligatory ‘foot bags’ and power hose!

Living the country life

Puncture to the heart

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This week I became the a real puncture repair veteran. Some people might even start calling me the puncture repair man.

It all began, reasonably innocently (this is a bit of a bold claim, because a puncture, is, by its very nature of being a puncture, inherently evil). It wasn’t a particularly hard puncture to fix – the usual process of pump up the tyre, hear the air escaping, mark it carefully with my wax crayon (what has happened to wax crayons?), deflating, roughening up, applying glue, sticking patch, holding, waiting, dusting off with chalk, pumping up to check it’s worked, putting it back together again.

Except my world began to become unstuck on that last point. It is such a silly, little, insignificant point. But it was when I put it back together, that I realised I couldn’t put it back together – it didn’t fit. The tyre was too small for the wheel. In situations like this, I’ve often found a bit of ‘mild’ aggression can go a long way. And it did. Before I knew it, the tyre was back on the bike and I was gleefully pumping the tire back up again. And I carried on pumping. That gleefull smile began to slide off my face. I realised in my burst of mild aggression with the tyre levers I’d had the misfortune of actually puncturing the tyre again.

So I had to take it all apart again.

If that was the end of the story, it would have been a slightly sad, but not tragic tale.

The tragedy was that an hour and a half later I was still there, desperately trying to put the tyre back on the wheel without creating any more punctures (I was on puncture number six at this point). And finally I did it, the tyre back on, the wheel pumped up.

Until the next morning when I found the tyre deflated again.

Seven punctures, one week.

Soul destroyed.