Saturday, October 30, 2004

Socks

For those of you that believe in just desserts, and the inherent abilities of children.

I have no chocolate biscuits left. And I put on a pair of odd socks on this morning...

I have been duped! Turned over! Conned by two girls (of ages 6 and 8!). Biscuits obtained under false pretences, I tell you.

Well done girls, I salute your awareness of your Uncle's gullibility

Wednesday, October 27, 2004

Perve interlude.

Watching Die Another Day and I have to say...

Halle Berry: I would, and no mistake. What a stunning woman. I would even go as far as to crawl over broken glass for a night with her, maybe for even just a couple of hours? Although this will obviously have to include a "raincheck" option in case I damage anything pertinent. Glass fragments and pert and pointy members are probably not a good combination...

But if everything is still functioning and perky after all that, I humbly offer my services to see if I could put a smile on her face.

Actually, fuck it. As long as it puts one on mine.

:)

/perve mode off.

I shall be normal again now. Well. My usual approximation, at least.

At what point am I too old for this?

I am 32 years old.

And I am still excited about there being a James Bond film on tonight. Even if it isn't one of the really good ones...

I get the sneakiest suspicion that might be a bad thing to admit to...

Tuesday, October 26, 2004

Getting scarily sensible and old..

Ok. I am on the computer, and decide I need a cup of coffee.

I go into the kitchen, put the kettle on, but get distracted and end up doing all the washing up even though there are clean cups in the cupboard...

What the fuck is that all about? What sort of person gets distracted into doing the washing up? It wan't even going to impact what I was about to do, for fucks sake.

Surely it should have been:

" I was doing the washing up, but got distracted into leaving it for 4 days, as I suddenly remembered that there was a bit on the couch that needed my arse covering it for the foreseeable future. And then I had to scratch my balls for a day."

God, how depressing. I despair for myself, I really do.

Am I an evil "Fagin" type?

I had my sister and her two kids coming to see me today. I took the day off work and spent the time before they arrived sorting the flat out. I had nearly finished, and was just getting all the clean clothes off the airer with merely a pile of clean socks to sort for my joblist to be finished. Then they turned up.

I have this problem, you see. If I have plenty of time to do something, I am incapable of doing it. I need the pressure of a deadline to work against and nearly hit...

And I quote:
"I love deadlines. I love the whooosh-ing noise they make as they go by." - Douglas Adams.

Anyway, I digress. SO unlike me.

So I have a pile of socks that need sorting out. So what do I do? Being the caring and sharing uncle that I am?

This!

Mwahahahaha! I am a child slave genius!



Sunday, October 24, 2004

Liza's famous "Cousin It" impression


Liza's famous "Cousin It" impression
Originally uploaded by Brock.

This made me chuckle a lot, too.

In fact I am still sniggering about it.

*snigger*

See?

Pashmina-Brock


Pashmina-Brock
Originally uploaded by Brock.

Drunken evenings often end up with daft things happening. Sometimes even daft pictures being taken.

This was on my camera in the morning. I'd forgotten all about it, and still can't remember why it seemed such a good idea to put it on. I am, however, fairly convinced I might have been taking the piss out of someone.

Just a feeling.

;)

Saturday, October 23, 2004

Laughing at Tourists.


One of a load of Basilicas
Originally uploaded by Brock.

I was taking this picture, some time ago. It was in the middle of Venice, over the Grand Canal on a lovely arched wooden bridge. We were not alone, there were about 15 other tourists (it was a big bridge) all taking pictures or admiring the view.

Next to us were two American girls (probably early 20's at the most) taking much the same picture as me. As we were putting our stuff back in the bag, one of the girls dropped her expensive looking camera. It bounced on the guard rail, bounced twice on the wood of the base of the bridge and then shot back through the guard rail to drop probably 35 foot into the water.

*plop*

By some fluke, it actually floated. It sat there bobbing in the ripples as we watched it. The girl was flapping, so I suggested that she ran over to the Gondolier near the bank, sat there chatting with his mates, to go out and get it. She ran down to him, and he did the whole typical shruggy shoulders "crazy tourist, don't understand you/don't want to/I'm just being difficult and moving is more arse than shrugging my shoulders" bit that used to drive me mental when I lived there.

He procrastinated until I shouted over at him to go and get it, as it was still floating there (being able to remember significantly more of my Italian than I can now!). The shock of actually being addressed by a tall shouty and, I assume, intimidating and charismatic tourist in his own tongue spurred him into lethargic life.

Ok. I'll settle for tall and shouty.

He poled away from the jetty, but just as the very prow of his boat came alongside the camera, it bobbed once and shot toward the depths at remarkable speed. Sod's law. He then looked a bit smug about the futileness of his journey out to retrieve it, being as it was always just going to sink as far as he was concerned. So I pointed out that if he'd got off his arse sooner he would have got it.

My girlfriend, having only heard me ordering tickets before this (and anyone can get that from a phrase book) was, until this point anyway, being rather impressed by my galantry and use of Italian. As the conversation continued though, this admiration quickly turned as she realised that I was arguing with a complete stranger again, and that I was the same picky bastard in any tongue.

Ho hum.

In my defense, I did point out that arguing in Italian was much more impressive looking than it actually is - I can do the arm waving bit and everything!. It was all fairly good natured anyway, but she couldn't tell that. She hit me on the arm, and dragged me off. Which the bloke in the Gondola found rather amusing.

I apologised to the american girl who had lost the camera for not stepping in earlier, which gained me nearly a half brownie point back, but it was nearly an hour before the GF started to find the episode as funny as I did.

I did eventually manage to convince her that we weren't going to be set upon by a gang off oddly dressed Italians with big poles and funny hats on the way back to the Hotel, though.

Friday, October 22, 2004

Possibly the most famous Brock shot of all


Possibly the most famous Brock shot of all
Originally uploaded by Brock.

Hanni asked me what the scar on my head was that she has so thoughtfully highlighted as a note on this picture.

Thanks.

But as if it would be something so mundane or normal as chicken pox, as she suggested. Ha!

I was about 13 years old, it was in the lunch hour at school and I was wandering about with my mate Tim (as you do when you are a 13 year old boy). We were messing around in a building site (yes, yes, I know!) and after lots of stupid sillyness (no vandalism, I wasn't that sort of boy) Tim cracked a 'really funny' gag...

I was poking around looking at stuff, when Tim, who was next to me at the time said:

"Look, look! This is how an Australian throws a grenade!!"

He then threw a big stone (symbolising the grenade, for the stupid) straight up in the air and ran away from it as fast as he could. This would have been reasonably amusing (we were, remember, 13) but, unfortunately, yours truly was really not paying attention. I was vaguely aware of Tim shouting something. Then a pause. Then him screaming my name in a high pitched, almost hysterical, voice.

I looked at him, becoming vaguely aware of what was happening as my brain processed what it had obviously heard and stored in my sub-concious, and looked up just in time to get hit straight in the face by the big (did I mention that it was sharp?) stone. Pole-axed, I was. Down like a sack of shit, feeling rather dazed.

As some of you may be aware, the blood vessels in the face are quite near the surface, and my forehead erupted in a stream of blood. Lots of it. We then spent the next 15 minutes with me staggering up the middle of the road seeing spots and stuff and with blood running down my face, as Tim frantically knocked on all the doors in the street trying to find someone in. Fortunately, he did, and I had my face mopped up by a nice lady. She stuck a few plasters on my head after it had stopped bleeding, and I had a great big lump there for about a week. On my head, rather than it being my head, before any of you smart arses say it.

It bloody hurt, actually. And I still have the scar to this day. Imagine, Hanni, if I'd been sensitive about it? Just THINK of the emotional damage you could have done!!!1111

Ah. Whoops.

Anyone know how you can get bits of biscuit out from under the keys on your keyboard?

It crunches when I type.

:(

Photo frenzy


Canal
Originally uploaded by Brock.

I have posted some shots of Venice from my holiday there the other year for those of you that like that sort of thing...

Click the one above and have a little look-see. There's loads, and the more astute among you may notice the slight wane in enthusiasm for snappy titles that came over me...

*Burp*


*Burp*
Originally uploaded by Brock.

Well they lasted a surprisingly long time.

And for my next trick, I shall eat a whole garlic bread on my own.

God help the Babybadger when i turn up at her house tomorrow with garlic breath that could strip the paint off a battleship. And then sink it.

Unlucky.

Still alright if I stay is it?

:)

Thursday, October 21, 2004

Alan Coren

Right. I may be the last person on earth to finds out about this bloke, I would not be at all surprised, but this guy makes me laugh a lot.

I have been missing new stuff that makes me laugh out loud, and I think I may have found it. Not a lot makes me properly laugh out loud, not on TV (mainly only such things as Never Mind the Buzzcocks, or live shows by Billy Connolly or Eddie Izzard et al), and only one so far in print. The legend that is (for I find it too depressing to use the word 'was') Douglas Adams. I could read his books from cover to cover till the cows came home.

They own the books, see. I just borrow them and they want them back. What else did you think cows did with their time while they are standing there being milked? They read. And to think that you thought cows were stupid!

Well, alright, they are. But it's not for lack of trying to improve themselves with the power of the printed word, ok?

Anyway. You (if your humour even approximates mine) need this in your life. I am only about an 1/8th of the way through it, and already I am getting the feeling of witnessing genius strokes of mind association/tangential application of imagination. Saltation, dear boy, this is the sort of stuff that you and me want to write. Believe me, this man will make you shake, shimmy and generally still be awake at 3 unable to put the book down, making you tired for work for the next day. He makes the sort of leaps of imagination that (if you are still aware of the original premise, and sometimes if you know your history) will seem so surreal, yet will still still be simple enough to make you think "Damn!!! MY mind works like that! Why the fuck can't I get this sort of thing down onto paper as well as this?"

It rocks. Seriously.

Try it. It is, after all, cheap. Being cheap is close to the hearts of the majority of my readers, I am aware. For different reasons, perhaps, but important nonetheless. If you don't buy it, then borrow it and read it.

Tuesday, October 19, 2004

trick bits.

I now have a new icon at the top there ^

See it?

It's the same as my flickr icon, and is a rather spiffing (and free) thing from these people. I tried to do a badger one (like the one on my phone, for those that know) but it was too small, so I settled for the "eye of doom".

If you have a nice web domain company or people than can host you webspace, then it is a definite winner. It is only a little pickle image, but needs to be somewhere...

Rockin'!!!

(thanks to the find must go to Sal)


Monday, October 18, 2004

Christmas gets earlier and earlier


Christmas gets earlier and earlier
Originally uploaded by Brock.

Well. This was going to be a post about the horrible commercialisation of Christmas and the massive pressure put on people to over indulge. And how this pressure is put on people for a greater and greater period each year.

Then I weakened and bought them. The devil has me by the stomach, I tell you.

I only went out for some bread.

Bugger.

I washed the saucepan. I opened the can, I got out the cheese, the loaf of bread and the beans.

I haven't had beans on toast for years, and I was getting rather pleased with the idea, being as I have had enough of cooking properly like I have for the last week or two.

It all goes in the pan and gets gently warmed as I potter about finishing the washing up.

I open up the loaf to be confronted with a putrid smell and the dim realisation that it has been some time since I had anything involving bread...

Mouldy, rank mass of green and white stuff. Ew. I shut my eyes quick, held my breath and did the bag up and tied a knot in it as quick as I could. Because although I now have to go and get changed again and walk down the road to the shop for some fresh bread, I didn't want to stare at the bread long enough to put me off.

I really want beans on toast. Although I did consider, for a fleeting moment, just not eating anything at all, as cooking anew was far too depressing.

Arse.

:(

Sunday, October 17, 2004

It would appear

...that after an extensive evening of research, I can conclude:

(and this is, pretty much, a completed survey)

that sitting on my couch and glancing over at the bathroom door at, approximately, 20 minute intervals does not (and brace yourselves for this, people, it may shock) make it any cleaner. Furthermore, I have concluded that it may well stay at the state it is until I get off my arse and rub a cloth over it. Maybe with some sort of abrasive cleaner being involved. Not sure about the last bit, but it would seem likely. I watched my Mum when I was little, you know, and I learnt stuff.

And tomorrow? I shall sit on a chair and stare at the washing up and see if I can will it clean.

Watch this space, fact fans. More cutting edge scientific knowledge coming your way...

Oh. And rumours of my inactivity having been fuelled by Gin and Tonic are wholly unfair, and have been grossly exagerrrrrrraaaa...erm, made up.

TV.

Grumpy old man department.

BLOODY television. It irritates the shit out of me that the adverts are louder than the actual programmes. I am here sorting some things out on the 'puter, and watching some TV in the background. I get it to a reasonable volume so that I can still be aware of what is going on without distracting me too much. A nice balance between loud enough to allow me to tune in and out of it without it being too loud as to be intrusive.

Then the programme stops, and the ADVERTS COME ON AT 130 DECIBELS!!!111

Pisses me off no end. I am sure that they have done some toss-arse marketing study that says that people try and switch off in ad breaks, and so you must make the adverts 'stick out' in such a way as to draw people in to it and 'get' the message. Or maybe it is because people are trying to get up and make tea and the like, so the advertising must compete with the extra volume in the room. Whatever the reason, it gets my goat.

Same thing with radio and the DJ's voices. You get the volume right for the songs, and then some blathering, over-enthusiastic twat comes on and shouts about how funny/great/cutting edge they are. Sara Cox is one of the worst protagonists of this, thank god she is pregnant and so is off the airwaves. People generally listen to the radio for the music. Sort it out, you bastards!

Grumble grumble blah, blah.

Carry on.

/grumpy old man mode off

Friday, October 15, 2004

Crappest injury in the world


Crappest injury in the world
Originally uploaded by Brock.

I work with engines. I handle hundreds of different steel, aluminium and other metal parts with various sharp edges. I also have scalpels and sharp knives in my toolbox and use them frequently.

So what did I cut my hand on today?

See for yourself...

Hitch

My router whistles. This means that I have to turn it off. I is disappointed.

I wanted (for a reason that may just be toy factor) to have the interweb connected all the time. But maybe I can hide it in the airing cupboard. I can't hear the heating, so maybe it will mask the router whistle.

The problem is, you see is that data is going through my connection so fast it whistles.

(Neeooowww)

Thursday, October 14, 2004

Oooooh. Toys!

I now have broadband.

And a wireless network.

Not that I have anything to connect wirelessly to it. But that is hardly the point, is it? It came as part of the router.

But I have broadband now. It's ever so fast.

*click*

NEEEEOOOOOWWWWW!

pages and pages of inter-stuff....

Rockin'

:)

Wednesday, October 13, 2004

I hope this is not a trend...

Now. After my post of yesterday about the horses and noxious fumes? Well...

On my way to work every morning I drive over a common on the top of a very big hill, from whence I took this photo, this one, and this one. It is a lovely, large area of grassland, and is home to a herd of about 50 naturally grazing cows (I have been meaning to get a shot of these, but I'm crap) that are completely free to wander across this huge area. There are no fences between the road and the common, merely cattle grids at either end of the road that goes through it.

I was driving through this very morning, and found that the cows had gravitated to the bottleneck area at the far end of the common and had congregated on and around the point where the road leaves the common. They were consequently fenced in on 3 sides by two fences and a cattle grid. Approaching from the open side was myself, second in a line of 4 cars. A further 3 cars were attempting to get through the herd from the other direction as they milled around in the road, crossing randomly from one side to the other in some confusion. All of us were forced to a standstill for some minutes.

"Cows are so fucking stupid"

I muttered to myself, whilst being amused at the calfs and be-horned adults generally dithering and pissing us motorists off. They did have rather large horns, so despite my usual early morning (complete) lack of patience I refrained from leaning on the horn and shouting obscenities out of the window for fear of getting a pranged door or the like from the panic. Whilst I was sat there, I decided that my best course of action was to stop the calf and (presumably) mother on the road just outside my drivers door from trying to cross in front of my car and potentially stop there and delay me more. So I started to ease forward and close the gap. As I did this, a cow from on the verge a little way from my car suddenly (seriously) hustled forward and moved to stand in front of my car. It then raised its tail and (yup. You guessed it) fired a liquid stream of shit out onto the road right in front of my car, close enough that I would have no choice but to drive through it. I swear the fucker was looking right at me as it squeezed it out. As soon as it had finished, it moved the rest of the way past my car and sauntered up the road. It had been waiting for the most irritating moment to crap in front of my car!!

Bastard.

What is it about me that makes animals shit huge dollops in front of me? Whatever it is, I wish to absolve myself of its influence. Cow shit stinks too.

If I can focus/function before I leave tomorrow morning (no guarantees, normally) I will try and remember to take my camera to work and get a shot of the cows so you can all laugh at me with a realistic visual picture. I'm sure you would all enjoy it more that way...

Tuesday, October 12, 2004

Horse farts smell bad...

I forgot to mention. I don't know whether it was as a personal statement or mere coincidence, but both of the other horses chose to wait until I was sitting close behind them before farting/crapping in such prolific volumes that I very nearly died of asphyxia. No, seriously.

It was an incredible stench. I had no idea that digested grass could smell so bad.

We were inside the first time it happened. I was sitting there waiting to be told to do something when I became dimly aware that the tail of the horse in front seemed to be rising as one, ie from the top as if it was being pulled up by a string around the base. Because I was directly behind, I had none of the traditional profile of tail curling clear to warn me, you see.

"That's odd. I wonder why...." Thought I.

And slow realisation dawned too late for avoiding action. With a sound akin to that of the doors of a bus opening (and a double decker one at that) a green fog billowed in my direction. I already had a hangover, thank you very much, and needed no more encouragement for stomach-stability issues I can assure you. And what with being inside, and hence void of all ability of the wind to clear the foul odour, I had to sit there pretending I was enjoying myself with a fixed grin until it eventually fell on the floor with a wet thud, shaking the ground gently.

You've no idea how hard it is to retch gracefully whilst trying to maintain a fixed grin. I gave up and, being a classy sort of guy cried:

"Oh my fucking god! That STINKS!"

Ah well. I may have destroyed all pretence at decorum, but at least the disapproving glances from the stable girl distracted me from throwing up. Pop back next week, kids, for some more erudite and mature wisdom from the grown ups.

Pulling the gearbox apart


Pulling the gearbox apart
Originally uploaded by Brock.

Got sent another picture of all of us being nasty to metal things on Friday.

For those who feel their days are empty without another pic of me and my mates...

Monday, October 11, 2004

The reason I am walking funny

I went back to my old stomping ground this weekend to see some mates, one of whom had a birthday. It was really good fun. We all had lots of laughs, more Chinese food than we deserved to eat being as there is starving in the world, and rather more drink than was strictly necessary.

Marvelous.

After the mammoth night of stupidness on Friday (see the post below) it was rather good to carry on and not have it all go flat by going home and doing nought on my own. It all ended (for me at least) by me falling asleep on the sofa, rather relaxed, between 2 lovely ladies, as a third lovely lady was trying to ply me with more vodka... I could get used to that! But the point of all this, and the main reason for me writing this, and indeed wincing all day is a seemingly innocuous question posed at one point of the evening:

"Oooh. We're going horse riding tomorrow. Do you want to come?"

Well, I thought in my ultimate and slightly befuddled wisdom, how hard can it be? I have ridden a horse when I was a nipper, so I'm sure it'll be ok.

The bruises on my arse, and the groin strain that I am feeling tells me that 20 years is too long between horse rides for it to all go swimmingly... It all started off well, despite the massive hangover (although I was by no means the one suffering the most; I shall mention no names). I managed to get on the horse and not immediately fall off, even when it moved, much to my surprise. And that of my friends, I might add. We started off sedately walking around, and I only felt a little bit stupid, so that was good, eh?

We then went outside to the paddocky/runny-around bit, as I believe it is termed, and did some runny-aroundy stuff. This started off with trotting or, as I like to call it: "Brock bouncing up and down on a bit of leather trying desperately to get in time with the damn snorty thing so it doesn't hurt his arse". I have to concede that the official title is a touch snappier, but fuck 'em, mine is more accurate. I was really trying to hold on, as instructed, with the lower half of my legs and just raise my arse a little at the right time, but I reckon my horse was broken. It never seemed quite right. Whenever I tried to raise my self up on the stirrups they seemed to move away from me until I gripped with my knees, and I kept being told that it was wrong. Ho hum.

I did cause some amusement to the woman that was training us, as she did ask me at one stage why I looked like I was concentrating so hard. I was forced to explain to her that I was a little concerned that all this banging up and down, some of my more (how shall I put this) dangly bits may become dislodged by all the shaking about, swing backwards and end up between the saddle and my rapidly approaching nether regions. This would, I don't doubt, result in my coughing, going green - perhaps even puce - and feeling that horrible empty stomach feeling that all men who have damaged their Betty Swallocks will be familiar. This would explain my reluctance to allow this scenario's prevention to be left to chance. But as I tried to to explain this all to her whilst careering around an oval track without falling off or squashing one of my nuts was apparently funny.

Ha.

They needn't have worried, my groin hurts enough as it is, today. I am going to bed in a minute to rest and attempt to recover.

Bloody horses.

Still. I did enjoy the day, and we followed it up with a lovely roast dinner at the pub, and I slept like a log that night, I can tell you. A log that woke with a sore groin and arse, but a log nonetheless.

Sunday, October 10, 2004

Breaking stuff

Friday was a night of much amusement, dust, and gearbox oil. If you are easily bored by anything involving technical detail, you may want to move along. This won't appeal to all of you!

My mate had a small, erm, 'incident' in his car involving the front wheels locking solid at 40mph as he approached a roundabout. The gearbox had seized solid, after we had been telling him that the whine he had been hearing for the last 2 months was "nothing to worry about" and that he should "ignore it and keep driving the car". We were considering that the car was only worth £750 or so, and so the cost of a new/scrap/exchange gearbox was not worth the expense and the hassle till it was properly broken.

We decided that the point when it seized solid with a bang and a cloud of smoke and deposited him on a grass verge in the middle of a major road junction may actually tick that box...

So, by way of comaraderie (or guilt - you choose) we all descended on where the car was being stored since the drama (at a farm, as it happens) to see what could be done about fixing it. Just swapping it for another scrap 'box was written off as not worth it (upward of £200 for one) so we decided to take it off the car, strip it down and see if we could just replace a few bits and get it running again.

As I arrived (half 6 in the evening straight from work) 2 of the boys had already got the box out of the car, and after a brief pause for coffee, tea and playing with a new digi camera, we set to it. It all started off in a rather civilized fashion; one taking pictures of the box as we took it apart, one marking up bags for the various bolts and spacers and such, the others taking things off. All very good stuff.

"Now, before we take too much apart, we need to make sure that we don't lose any bits".

As this nugget of (perfectly sound) wisdom was being imparted, cue yours truly pulling a little too hard on one of the selector rings and firing 3 tiny sets of spring, detente ball and pilot guide across the workshop floor.

"Ah. We said we weren't going to do that, didn't we?" I mused. As they all laughed/scrabbled on the floor for the errant bits/glowered at me/took the piss respectively, we carried on. Not the last time that little scenario was played out, either. I didn't do the second one, though. I had learned my lesson. And there were more bits in that one. It took 2 of them to put it back together...

It subsequently transpired that first gear's bearing had welded itself to the main shaft (effectively going into 1st gear without the aid of the gearstick) at exactly the same moment as 3rd gear was selected on the approach to the roundabout. Gearboxes have a rather strong aversion to being in two gears at once. It upsets them and makes them unhappy. This particular one decided to show it's displeasure by stripping half the teeth off of 3rd gear, jamming the resulting bits of teeth into the main shaft bearings and exploding it. Consequently, the gearbox is, and this is the technical term, buggered. This is the conclusion that we arrived at with our 3 Mechanical (Vehicle) Engineering degrees and one Enviromental Science degree (the owner of the car).

It was so buggered, that we had to use 4 crowbars, 4 blokes, a blowtorch and a bloody great hammer to actually get it apart so that we could see the final damage quota. We even broke the gearbox casing itself trying to get the gear off the shaft. Here was the end result, and here is one of the reasons that it all got messy...

Unbelievable. It's amazing what mechanical devices can do when things go wrong. Such forces involved. Anyway, it was beyond repair. It most definately was by the time we finished with it, too. We had never held out much hope for it though, I have to confess. It was the car equivalent of that bloke on Star Trek in the red jumper that used to go down to the planet with the away parties. You know, the one played by an actor that you'd never seen before. He had 'dead' written all over him before he'd even stopped being wobbly from the transport.

RIP Saab gearbox. Ho hum. We'll have to see what can be found for our erstwhile companion by way of transport. He'd probably better not get any advice from us about the soundness of any potentials, though. We may have blighted our copy book with the last one!

Thursday, October 07, 2004

Nan 100th Birthday


Nan 100th Birthday 2
Originally uploaded by Brock.

It's amazing really.

I went to a Birthday meal yesterday. My Nan was explaining that she thought the reason that she is so old is that she always had plenty of fresh air. She was never allowed (apparently) to have the window shut at night when she was young, no matter what the weather. She explained this theory at length.

My uncle and I sat there, and put forward the theory that she has lived so long because she is bloody stubborn, and the longer she stays on this mortal coil, the more she can play her kids off against each other and make them fight. She is as sharp as a knife for 100, It's all a front, this hobbling about and wobbly voice bit, believe me!

She did nearly spit her false teeth out when she blew her candles out though. Much to our amusement. There were, however, not a hundred of them, merely a '1' and two '0's that stood on the cake.