Last week I went to my local supermarket to get my weeks supply of essential groceries; whisky, rum, wine, beer, crisps, chocolate; you know, all the usual stuff.

I went to the checkout where the nice looking girl who had two great big gorgeous blue eyes was checking out a long queue of mainly men, and waited patiently to be served. I could have gone to the checkouts on either side of her because there was no queue at those, but I thought ‘what the hell, you only live once’.

When it was my turn she gave me a lovely smile and said “Do you need any help with your packing, sweetheart?”. To which I replied “No thanks, and I’m not your sweetheart (chance would be a fine thing!) and I’m not quite decrepit yet, I think I can just about manage”, and smiled sweetly back.

Now I am an organised person and I had placed my items on the conveyor belt in a logical order, i.e., bottles first, followed by the tins, then the packeted goods and finally to vulnerable goods like butter, biscuits, crisps (potato chips to our friends in the Colonies!) and lastly the soft fruit and vegetables.

I laid out my ‘Save the Environment’ bags to begin packing when suddenly there was a shower of goods thrown at me at high speed. First came the fruit, biscuits and crisps. Before I could stuff them into a bag the bottles and tins came rolling down the ramp and smashed into the biscuits etc. While I was trying to load the goodies into the bags she announced “That will be £23 : 17s : 11d please” (I haven’t gone metric yet) and stuck her hand out for the money. I paid up and went back to my packing and she made it quite obvious that I was holding up the queue by sitting there and mentally drumming her fingers impatiently.

When I arrived home I found that most of the biscuits were broken, the grapes were bleeding badly and one of the tins was dented! I thought “Right monkey, I’ll be looking out for you in future!”

As luck would have it I saw her on the same checkout this week. I went to her checkout and piled my goods onto the conveyor belt and waited until the she started putting them through. About halfway through I dived off down the nearest aisle muttering something about needing to buy cat food. Then I spent some time hiding away from the checkout just to see how long she could last before calling for the supervisor. I kept looking from a suitable vantage point until I saw her “Help me!” light flashing then I walked up to the checkout which by now had a long queue of very agitated people and casually said “You haven’t got the right sort” and paid the bill. The nice thing was that while she was waiting for me she had packed my bags! How sweet, but the bloody biscuits were broken again . . . . .

First, let me say that I did not write the following, I received it in an email last year from a close friend who has now passed into history. I don’t think he wrote it, but I wouldn’t be surprised if he had. I have modified it to suit my own particular situation.

I was contemplating writing a post about this very subject, then I remembered this email which states the way I feel so much better than I can. I don’t usually copy other peoples work and claim originality (well, perhaps just a little bit!), so if the originator of it comes forward I will give him/her credit.

“As I’ve aged, I’ve become kinder to myself, and less critical of myself, but more cynical of the way of the world is nowadays.

I’ve become my own best friend; in fact my only friend now. I don’t chide myself for eating that extra cake or biscuit, or for not making my bed, or for buying those gadgets that I didn’t need, but love to play with. I am entitled to a treat, to be messy, to be extravagant.

Whose business is it if I choose to play on the computer until 3am and sleep until noon? I will dance with myself to those wonderful tunes of the 50′s & 60′s, and if I, at the same time, I wish to weep over a lost love ….. I will.

I will walk along the beach in shorts that are stretched over a beer-belly, and will dive into the waves with abandon if I choose to, despite the pitying glances from the younger generations. They, too, will get old one day if they don’t drug and smoke themselves to death beforehand.

I know I am sometimes forgetful. But there again, some of life is just as well forgotten, and I eventually remember the important things.

Sure, over the years my heart has been broken. How can your heart not break when you lose a loved one, or when a child dies, or even when your beloved cat gets hit by a car? Broken hearts are what give us strength and understanding and compassion. A heart never broken is pristine and sterile and will never know the joy of being imperfect.

I am so blessed to have lived long enough to have my hair turning grey and eventually fall out, and to have my youthful laughs(?) forever etched into deep grooves on my face.

I have seen too many close friends leave this world too soon, before they understood the great freedom that comes with aging. So many of them have never laughed, and so many have died before their hair could turn silver.

As you get older, it is easier to be positive. You care less about what other people think. I don’t question myself any more. I’ve even earned the right to be wrong when it suits me.

I like being old. It has set me free. I like the person I have become. I am not going to live forever, but while I am still here, I will not waste time lamenting what could have been, or worrying about what will be. I shall eat crisps, chocolate and cakes, and drink beer and Pastis every single day”.

This is a follow up to my post on the same subject last year.

Last Thursday at the ‘Working Men’s Club’ we were all gathered around the bar quaffing our ale as usual and listening to the folk singers in the lounge singing the usual mournful songs about disasters down the mines, fishing boats sinking in the stormy North sea, death in the trenches (1914-18), and other such cheery songs.

Sid only comes in on Thursdays, wife permitting, to listen to the boys in the back room singing their doom and gloom songs. We all eagerly waited to hear how he got on with our advice on boiling an egg in the microwave, (so it appeared).

Sure enough at 8:30 he appeared, all smiles and generally being jolly. “Hi fellas, how’s things?” he said, and turning to the barman “A pint of mild and a packet of Pork Scratchings please Barry” he said.

Picking up his pint he sat down at a nearby table, and started to read the evening paper.

“Well?” said someone. He glanced up. “Well what?” “How did you get on with boiling your eggs in the microwave?” I asked.

“No problem, thanks to your advice. Best boiled eggs I have ever tasted” he replied. “Really?” I said. “Yes, really, Jean (his wife) said she will always do it that way in future”, then he turned his attention back to the paper.

“Incredible! I would never have believed it.” said Barry, the landlord, “I thought you were having him on” he said to me. “No, would I ever do a thing like that to my best friend?” I replied.

A strange look came into his eyes, “Hmmm . . . Keep on eye on the bar for me for will you?” he said as he turned and walked into the pub kitchen. “I’ll be back shortly”.

About five minutes later we heard a muffled “FLUMP!” from the kitchen and Barry came running back into the bar, “You B*****ds” he shouted “You set me up didn’t you! You knew it wouldn’t work, and the lot of you want … well, you know!”

Turning to Sid he asked “How the hell did you manage to boil the eggs without them exploding?” “Simple” said Sid, “I always boil mine in a saucepan, I’m not as daft as you make me out to be”.

We all stood around laughing, but nobody offered to go and clean out the microwave. “You do realise Barry that this was a conspiracy to pay you back for last Christmas when you served up the Christmas Lunch and told us it was turkey, and afterwards announced that is was ‘road kill’ you found at the side of the lane, made my wife and several people feel really ill, and you thought it was really funny”, announced Sid.

“But I did tell you the day after that it was really turkey didn’t I?” he replied.

“And now we’re telling you that any idiot knows you can’t boil an egg in the microwave” said Sid “You always make out that I’m the village idiot, now you’ve just inherited the title!”

Pub patrons – 1, Pub landlord – 0
Game over.

After my last post (10 April. Bloody hell! Has it been that long? I’ve had a birthday since then) I did a big think, and I’ve come to the conclusion that doing political stuff and generally ranting about the state of the country isn’t going to change anything, so why bother? We’ll all bloody doomed anyway.

When I shop in Leicester I don’t know whether I’m in India, Pakistan, or Poland now. The local rag stated that Leicester is now nearly “55% ethnic minority”, er. . . when I was at school, which was a very long time ago, we were taught that anything over 50% was a “majority”. Nowadays I do my shopping on t’internet.

Last night in the local sports club the discussion turned to microwave and combination cookers. Sid, the local dim-wit, stated that “They are no f***ing good. I tried to boil an egg in a bowl of water and the effing thing just exploded and coated the inside of the microwave with a sticky mess of yolk, eggshell and water!”

“You did it all wrong” I said in a loud voice, “It always works for me. Be sure to coat the egg with a layer of butter, or even yoghurt. This dissipates the energy waves evenly over the surface of the egg and heats it up evenly; and to prevent the water from slashing over the sides of the bowl just put a handful of oats in with the egg. Make sure that you switch to full-power and give it at least four minutes. Simpules! Can’t fail”.

Everybody at the bar who heard this confirmed that it was the right way to do it. Old Jim said “My wife always does it that way, same as my grandma did during the war when you couldn’t get eggs”. I think we all convinced him that was the right way to do it.

Poor Sid didn’t appear to realise that we were having him on. “OK, chaps I’ll give it a go like you said the next time I have an egg”.

I can’t wait until I see him again, although I probably won’t see much of anything for a few days afterwards on account of the swelling around my eyes!

Update: (22 May) If you read the post above this one you will realise why I added the last paragraph. It was to throw a certain pub landlord off the scent, because I know he reads my blog.