It's a Gas Man

I opened the door this morning. Outside was a gas man in a flourescent jacket who was panting and looking exhausted. "You look tired" I opined. "So would you be, if you'd just done a hundred meters" he replied.

But seriously folks, we got a new gas meter today. It was one of those stuations where they named the time and the date and then arrived at the right time on the right date. Well, I suppose it has to happen sometimes.

The job was very quick and slick. I wanted him to put the meter in backwards, so I get paid for heating the house, but apparently this is not an option.

Golfing

My brother in law let me drive his brand new VW Golf today. Very nice. The dashboard would not look out of place in Concorde. And everything lights up. Even the footwell. I could look down and make sure that my feet were still attached. And when you press the go pedal it gets faster. This is unlike my existing car. When you press the go pedal in my car the engine convenes a meeting of all relevant components. After a frank and fair exchange of views a vote is taken and, if the majority to accellerate is more than 60% with no more than 10% abstentions, the rev counter is allowed to increase by around 500 rpm.

Not so with the Golf. When you press the go pedal in that something hard kicks you in the small of the back and you notice that the scenery is now going past more quickly. It doesn't get any noisier, rattlier or bouncier (the three ways you can tell that my car is now going downhill) - it just gets faster.

And yet, I still prefer mine. It has that well worn patois, that feeling of familiarity, that lack of footwell lights which seems to fit well with me. And I'm not scared to leave it in carparks. Of course, if I could actually afford a new Golf this might be different.

Hull in Looking Good Shock

Hull centre was looking in particularly fine form today.

Scary Carparks

I was standing in line to buy the car park ticket today when I heard a most awful noise. It was like the distant wail of lost souls. Imagine the sound that people make at a theme park when the big ride goes over the top. Then take that "Ahhh", slow it down to quarter speed and play it in a minor key. Every time that someone went down the stairs this mournfull wail issued forth.

I was becomming convinced that the unsuspecting shoppers were indeed entering the very bowels of hell, when I realised that it was actually the noise made by air escaping from the door closers.

But it was still a scary moment.

Food as Opera

We all stood in the kitchen looking at the little tray of sausages which were the meal for the evening. By Friday nobody has much energy left for making culinary delights. So, out came the takeaway menus. We got a new menu through the door last week and, for the first time ever, ordered a meal for home delivery. Sure enough, at the appointed time a chap turned up with the food. It was excellent.

This time we thought we'd asuage some of the guilt incurred by not cooking by walking to the place and picking up the food. Also, we wanted to find out what it was like. The takeaway is called La Scala (70 King St. Cottingham, 01482 840073). It turns out not to be a place where fat ladies sing. More a place where slim ladies cook. It looks more like a nightclub than a takeaway. All was hustle and bustle and smart young things putting orders into bags.

We picked up the food and trundled home. Again, it was very nice. If you are after good takeaway food in Cott. (athough I must admit it costs a little bit more than our usual place) with a very wide range of dishes, you could do a lot worse than check them out.