52-48. Not the result of a rugby match but the different proportions of votes cast in the Shall We, Shan’t We Show Johnny Foreigner What We Think Of Him Referendum. To show just how much British people maintain their reputation for being good losers, some remain supporters are now suggesting that, as there was only a 75% turnout there was no majority. Old researchers never die – I wonder how many of those crying over the result actually voted against a change to the ‘first past the post’ system in the last British referendum. It would not be a true comparison, but would be mildly interesting.
After a campaign marked by lies, hyperbole and fantasy we now enter a period of fantasy, hyperbole and lies; plus ca change. Alexander Bozo De Pfeffer Janus’ Son (I’m not impugning his father, I don’t know the fellow) appears to have sunk to new depths. Having shrugged off accusations of his opportunism even when shown recording of his complete voltes-face (so much so that they were mega-volts face) he is now being reported to be back pedalling as fast as a Tour De France competitior on steriods about many issues, as are some of his collaborators. Apparently having brought the debate to the lowest common (and most common) denominator regarding racism they now aver that the only want to control immigration but cannot cut it; am I the only one missing something here?
Much though I do not like Alexander Bozo De Pfeffer Janus’ Son I am loth to criticise him. His dire warnings of plagues of frogs and the death of first borns seems dangerously close to a predictiion. The weather at Le Trou Cachee has been odd, as has the ambience. On Tuesday last the mirrors in the khazi and one bedroom misted over for no discernable reason. Later that day the khazi floor appeared to be sweating and continued so for 48 hours; no matter how much I mopped it, within a short while it was glistening again. I thought there was a drainage problem but then Alchy Annie complained of the same happening in her house. Towards the end of that little episode LTC was inundated with a plague of wee, slikit, cowrin, tim’rous beasties, not all longtails but all wee furry things.
Not one to kill anything unnecessarily, I resorted to the humane mousetraps – and found more evidence for the cure sometimes being worse than the ailment. After two nights of no further evidence I was awakened last night by a fervent scratching which appeared to be coming from a corner of the room. A search revealed nothing and so I tried to get back to sleep. Scratch, scratch, scratch – the whole night was disturbed by the incessant noise. So much so that I thought I would have to buy poison to rid myself of the little pests. With the dawn came enlightenment; I had caught one of them! I had been told some while ago that, contrary to Tom and Gerry films, mice are chocolate lovers rather than cheese eaters and so had primed the traps with nice, dark chocolate. The wee scunner, once trapped had spent the night trying to escape and and kept me awake in the process. It was lucky not to get a lump of four by two round the back of its head!
The wisdom with humane traps is to turn them around and around whilst walking for a hundred metres or so to disorientate the contents. Thus, when they are released, they do not find their way back. Some 25-30 years ago I caught a mouse in another similar trap. Having spent a while putting back what the day had taken out, I wandered down the road turning the trap; unfortunately I was also, apparently, turning myself. That mouse was back in residence before I was. Time will tell whether I have learnt from that experience. On the bright side, I thought it wise to top up the chocolate reserves whilst at a street market today; one never knows when the next plague may happen along. You don’t have one for 2,000 years then three turn up at once…
Now that Bozo Janus’ Son has had his wicked way I hope, despite the last paragraph, that I will be able to put the traps away for a considerable period. Unless, that is, his rather unpleasant little toady, Gove, has similar powers. The pair of them do remind me of classic school bullies: the large, bluff, do as I say or I will squash you and his sneaky little partner. Independence for Greyfriars – and Bunter banned from the tuck shop! It lacks a certain revolutionary ring but may catch on.
The changeable weather has meant that the growing season has been marked by wild abundance – and I have accordingly blunted the blade of my brush-cutter. The fence which Stu and I had carefully placed was all but hidden in the undergrowth. Not wishing to give the claim-jumping farmers any excuse to say that they had not seen it, I spent many a happy hour slashing – the burning, which is banned under a local ordinance, will have to wait until later. Close to 200 square metres of rough ground, heavily covered with dense undergrowth takes some clearing; I am pleased that I have power tools with which to do it.
Having been asked by Alchy Annie to show her son how to use my brush cutter I felt that I had to, although I was not too impressed with the thought that he might want to borrow it – it is easily damaged. When I told her that I was going too cut her lawn she told him – and then me that he didn’t want to come out to play. I started anyway and then he appeared – and after a couple of minutes asked whether I needed him. I said no and he went back indoors; at least he won’t want to be borrowing it. It will be a small price to pay if I cut her little patch of lawn whenever I do my own; mine takes about an hour, hers five minutes. My detached piece of land takes weeks (so far).
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