Dunroamin...or Dunelmin

Something is amiss with the weather down here in Sussex. It's been sunny. Very sunny. And hot. According to my diary the last time we had rain was on the 23rd June. Every morning since then has dawned bright and clear with the promise of yet another beautiful day. It's not always possible to take advantage of this meteorological largesse. Something called work gets in the way. But even work doesn't seem so bad when the sun is shining. Being a part-timer there's still plenty of time when I get home for a stroll on the beach.

And it's not always work that gets in the way. Sometime it's Dunelm, formerly called Dunelm Mill. I wonder why they dropped the 'Mill' bit of their nomenclature. Perhaps the company thought 'Mill' conjured up the image of those Dark Satanic Thingies mention in Blake's poem, or the thought of small children gathering up scraps of cotton from underneath dangerous and unguarded looms whilst stern overseers looked on. Or I might be overthinking it. It may just be that removing the word 'Mill' from their fascia boards and their stationery saved a tidy sum in plastic letters and printing ink. And it was to the Emporium Formerly Known As Dunelm Mill that Mrs H and I betook ourselves a couple of days ago. The main reason for our visit was to check out the considerable selection of curtain poles, temptingly displayed on the shop floor. The old curtain tracks in our bedroom had seen better days, and, with the impending erection of some shiny new shutters, Mrs H thought poles would be just the ticket to finish the room off nicely.

But it didn't end there. And I should have realised that it wasn't going to end there. After all, what's the point of poles without curtains? Mrs H thought that blackout curtains would be most suitable, and set off to look for some. Now, I'm not sure if I had a death wish on that particular day, or just a touch of the sun, perhaps. I should have donned the solar topee (erroneously referred to by some as a Pith Helmet) my work colleagues bought me for my last birthday. But I foolishly piped up and said, 'But we're having shutters. Why do we need blackout curtains?' Mrs H gave me a look that was half puzzlement and half amusement. You know, the sort of look a parent gives when their small child asks, 'Why are clouds?' I should have stopped at that point, but I was hot and tired and wanted a cup of tea. 'Why not just get a blackout duvet?' I said. 'An extra large duvet that you can pull right up to cover your head. No need for blackout curtains then.' Mrs H said she had never heard such rubbish since the last time I ventured an opinion on pretty much anything.

We never did buy poles or curtains on that particular day. Instead we had a cup of tea and then a general wander round the shop. It being high summer, the management had rather helpfully set out a small area of seasonal products. There were a number of boxes of umbrella grapes; realistic looking plastic ones that light up and can be festooned around one's sun umbrella. Always supposing that one could be bothered to drape the things from a garden parasol. I remarked to Mrs H that 'umbrella grapes' sounded like a bit of a euphemism. I also noticed a toucan solar stake light. This had a long spike that could be shoved into the ground, and topped with a fake branch upon which was sat a plastic replica of ramphastos toco albogularis. 'Nothing,' I said to Mrs H; 'Nothing says summer like a toucan solar stake light'.

Mrs H said she thought I should get out more. So we're off to Homebase next week. Let joy be unconfined. Oh, and it's started raining for the first time in almost a month.

My Sustainable Life

The report of my death was an exaggeration. Or would have been, if anyone had ventured to ask, 'Remember that Middenshire bloke? You know, the one with the blog full of stream of consciousness drivel. Is he still alive?' In answer to that unasked question, I can confidently say that I am undead. Now, some will argue that 'undead' is a term that can properly only be ascribed to that popular, but mythical creature, the zombie. But I disagree. What's the opposite of 'washed'? 'Unwashed'. And how about 'eaten'? That would be 'uneaten'. So why should the antithesis of 'dead' be any different? However you wish to describe me, I am still above ground, and ready to start committing my inconsequential thoughts to the blogosphere.

One of the motivational factors involved in bringing me back to this blog is the fact that I have a new computer. Until recently I was using a laptop that I had inherited from my father. Now, bearing in mind it was already a couple of years old then it became mine in 2009, it has been in use for eleven years. Processor speeds, it would seem, increase exponentially year on year, a bit like multiplying Dog Years by seven so they can be measured in human terms. So on this basis, the old lap top is probably long overdue a telegram from The Queen. My new machine is up and running within fifteen seconds, whilst the old one is still putting on its glasses and looking for its zimmer frame. But I haven't pensioned it off yet. Like an elderly aunt, I shall allow it to occupy an unused corner of the room, burbling quietly to itself during its thirty minute startup, until one day it slips quietly away during an attempt to stream a kitten video on YouTube.

An awful lot of water has gurgled through our downpipe since I was last here. Hale Towers has had yet more work done, most recently the installation of sustainable sandstone paving to replace the (never 100 per cent) lawn I created some years ago. A lawn that always seemed to be on the verge of suicide. So it went, and in came the sustainable stone. I'm very partial to the word 'sustainable'. It's a bit like claiming Diplomatic Immunity, or waving your 'Get Out of Jail Free' card during a game of Monopoly. Imagine: you decide to build a massive New Brutalist extension to your late Georgian stable conversion. All the neighbours are up in arms. Questions are raised at the Parish Council. And a Planning Officer turns up on your doorstep to demand an explanation. 'But it's sustainable,' you say, and instantly the situation is resolved. 'Ah, that's ok then,' says the Planning Officer, 'your approval notice is on its way'. I have also used this on Mrs H, when she asked When Was I Going To Clear All That Clutter From The Top Loft. 'It's fine,' I told her, 'It's sustainable'. Mrs H. said she hadn't the faintest idea what I was talking about.

Mrs H. not understanding me is what makes our relationship sustainable.