Lies; damn lies and site meters
I changed the site meter on this blog because the Bravenet one was boring. This one just gives me far too much information and it's preventing me from functioning properly. Today it has told me that I have had a referral from this page.
As you can see, there is no conceivable link to any blog, let alone this one. I would be delighted to feature on the French Canadian Zwarowski optics front page(accessed from Paris - it deepens) but I fear we have little in common. My mother has a large collection of their sparkly animals which, because of the dearth of display surfaces in the ancestral seat, she keeps away from prying eyes under the bath, behind the removable panel. Here I feel obliged to post the following note to potential opportunists - this may be old information because they may well have been moved, in which case my father will have constructed some vicious booby trap along the lines of the twelve bore cartridge caps on trip wires he has occasionally strung about the property. He has increased security ever since one of Kent's more notorious ne'r do wells moved in next door. Getting coal out of the bunker at night to charge the Aga is like negotiating a scene from Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom. Needless to say, Mum won't be inviting the neighbour round for one of her salads. Dad will still sell him courgettes though, because he'll sell anyone courgettes. I tell him, "Dad, if you call them zucchini, you could charge double. They still taste like shit but then people pay good money to eat crap. Lollo rosso and cauliflowers - case proven." This is not my dad playing with his zucchini.
Can you see how easily I digress? Beats me why I sometimes find writing so difficult. Apologies, I've been in the sun.
As you can see, there is no conceivable link to any blog, let alone this one. I would be delighted to feature on the French Canadian Zwarowski optics front page(accessed from Paris - it deepens) but I fear we have little in common. My mother has a large collection of their sparkly animals which, because of the dearth of display surfaces in the ancestral seat, she keeps away from prying eyes under the bath, behind the removable panel. Here I feel obliged to post the following note to potential opportunists - this may be old information because they may well have been moved, in which case my father will have constructed some vicious booby trap along the lines of the twelve bore cartridge caps on trip wires he has occasionally strung about the property. He has increased security ever since one of Kent's more notorious ne'r do wells moved in next door. Getting coal out of the bunker at night to charge the Aga is like negotiating a scene from Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom. Needless to say, Mum won't be inviting the neighbour round for one of her salads. Dad will still sell him courgettes though, because he'll sell anyone courgettes. I tell him, "Dad, if you call them zucchini, you could charge double. They still taste like shit but then people pay good money to eat crap. Lollo rosso and cauliflowers - case proven." This is not my dad playing with his zucchini.
Can you see how easily I digress? Beats me why I sometimes find writing so difficult. Apologies, I've been in the sun.
posted by Richard at 11:14 pm
2 Vegetable peelings:
It's your father's wolfhound that worries me! I'm sure he's been trained to eat only human flesh. Why he bothers with trip wires and the rest when he has Puff (?!!) to protect them is beyond me!
Wow! What a whopper!
Thank you for allowing me my seaside humour moment for the day x
Post a Comment
<< Home