Wotcha gang. Soz for being away for a while. I've been pretty busy lately.
As readers of my last post will have gathered, I have been thrown out of my own home in favour for some crippled, nonogenarian, bathing-halfwit, nazi.
It really does beggar belief that mother has the wool pulled over her eyes so easily. I wonder sometimes whether I wasn't adopted. My mind is like a steel trap, silently poised, awaiting whatever news comes stumbling by. Mum's mind is like a pair of heavy duty incontinent knickers at an old people's home.
Still, blood is thicker than water, or so the saying goes. I have decided, for the time being at least, that I shall humour her folly. Roger's mother Greta is to stay tucked up underneath my John Robertson poster, while I'll be sleeping in what appears to be a lavender and pink frilled mausoleum.
Roger is selfishly unwilling to sell his mother's house to fund her retirement home needs, since she wants to leave it to her grandchildren. As a consequence I have taken the noble step of moving out of my family home and into Greta's room in her tiny two-bed cottage in the north Nottinghamshire countryside.
I went for a walk earlier, I felt a little bit like Robin Hood. In many ways I sometimes think of myself as a Robin Hood Citizen Journalist of the Blogosphere. Taking stories from the rich and giving them to the poor. Mind, I saw that one with Russel Crowe in the other day, I've got to say I prefer the Costner version. At least Costner had the good grace not to adopt some faux Irish accent. You knew where you were with Costner.
Needless to say, Greta's place is a little behind the times. She has a stair-lift all right and one of those baths with a side door, what she doesn't have is broadband. Welcome to the 21st Century Grandma!! WTF?
I've been trying to get hooked up to the Super Information Highway all week. There's no cable out here in the stick, so I've got one of those dongles.
Dongle? Ha! Genius.
Greta's place isn't so bad really. There's a nice local pub in the village and the offie even sells Cobra. The only down side to living here is the news that Roger's youngest son Gary is due to move in any time soon. The last time I met Gary, or indeed any of Roger's offspring, was almost a year ago now.
He didn't strike me as being particularly trustworthy. Still, hopefully I shouldn't be here too long. I'm looking to get myself a job back down in London at some point.
Anyhoo, apparently there's karaoke in the local and I spotted quite a fit barmaid down there the other night. People have told me I do a good croon. I might treat her to one of my Humperdincks.
Baz of the woods