Our 2011 Center Parcs Holiday

I'm not going to go through all the pros and cons of Center Parcs [Sherwood Forest] because I've already done it in a previous post. I wouldn't even have bothered writing this were it not for my grumpy old man's latest faux pas.

I will however, mention that this time we stayed [eight of us] in an executive lodge rather than one of those cheaper peasant sheds [I really must stop calling them that, it's rubbing off]. We had four en-suite bedrooms, two with big rainforest showers and two with posh baths that lit up and blew bubbles up your bum.

All of the bedrooms had LCD TV's, as did the games room and lounge area. Two of the bedrooms had balconies with tables and chairs, plus - in my case - damp towels and my camera tripod. We also had our own sauna - phew, was it hot in there!

Again we had maid service, which we didn't avail ourselves of - apart from towel changes - this is because we decided that we were far too untidy to let the maid in. It'd be no good any of my family getting rich and having staff to 'do' for them because they wouldn't know how not to tidy up first. I would, however - being a bit [ok, a lot] more domestically challenged than the rest of my family - be prepared to get used to having cleaning staff if I come in to money.

Anyway, on to the reason for me writing this short ... er, biography. You know, it always starts off as one paragraph or at the most two ... then I get carried away:

Ahem, my GOM's latest 'foot in mouth' came when we were in the swimwear shop next to the dome, I'd been in the day before - after a few splashes around the rapids - and spotted a tankini I liked but wasn't carrying any money. This time I was going to try and hopefully buy - to add it to my collection of [six] others.

The only one in my size was gone, boo hoo. I turned to grumpy and said ... 'Somewhere in there [pointing to the dome and waggling my finger], there's a fat woman walking around in my tankini!'

Reply ... 'yes there is' ...

My Lips Are Sealed

Well, very nearly sealed.

It has come to my attention that a large piece of junk - namely a long tube thing with windows, doors and big wheels, but doesn't run on the road - has been moved from a certain spot nearby to another spot ... er, nearby. Lovely

Apparently it may be there for some time as the means of shifting it are - at the moment - somewhat, ahem, none existent.

Seeing as enquiries have been made about missing bits and the uniformed enquirers have been made aware of my blog. I thought it'd be best if I said nowt ... hmm.

I do hope that no-one is in any way trying to blame me for having mentioned - in passing - this place with lots of metallic stuff hanging about. Because it's not my fault if some tight-wad won't pay for security, and is then somewhat surprised when some naughty people have popped in and helped themselves ...

How Very Dare They!

My signed copy of Sir Terry Pratchett's Snuff

I was all excited this morning waiting for the post as I'd received an email last night telling me that my signed copy of 'Snuff' was on its way.

I'd just finished munching on my cereals and was drinking my cuppa while catching up with local news on my shiny newest toy [an android jobby], when I heard a knock then a voice asking ... 'are they in next door?'

I dashed off up the entry shouting ... 'yes they're in next door!' I signed for my 'Snuff' - it's my birthday present to me - while the post woman sorted out the rest of our mail.

There it was, for all the world and her neighbour to see - well me and the post woman actually. But if I was at all sensitive instead of armour-plated by my grumpyness, I'd have been mortified.

A bill? you may think, hmm, well there was one letter asking me for money ... fat chance.

No, it was a big letter from that effin shop I keep moaning about, wanting me to take out OVER 50's life cover. Bog off Asda, it's never going to happen!

Now, if it had been a nice, pretty envelope - keep the green, it's my favourite colour - with the suggested 'special birthday offer inside'. I'd have just thought ... 'Who the hell told 'em it's nearly my birthday?'

But no, there's an ignorant statement right at the top of the envelope, suggesting that I am over 50 - in writing big enough for me to see without my glasses, even with my presbyopic eyesight - and therefore am desperate for life cover because I'm so old that no insurance company will touch me with a bargepole.

And so what if I am hovering around the 50 mark, I've been told by someone tactful - yes, they are well trained - that I don't look it, but now the whole of Royal Mail knows I'm chuffin old as well as grumpy!!

Here's news for you Asda - I don't want life insurance, I'm officially a grumpy old woman lady, who enjoys scaring the pants off her family by telling each of them - individually - that I'm going to their sole responsibility and that I like OAK! ...

Langley Mill Roadworks Autumn 2011

I've just had a google alert ... you know the sort - where 'Langley Mill' and 'Asda' are mentioned in the same sentence ... mostly with a direct link towards some mad drivel [ie written by me].

But this time it was about the final phase of the gas mains revamp that affects Station Road and Cromford Road, so thought I'd provide a link to the website with the information - I get nicer every day.

Info about using links - in case you're technologically challenged - is on the interesting, informative side bit of my blog ...

Knitting, Working And Daddy-Long-Leg Sandwiches

I have rekindled my relationship with an old hobby, namely knitting. Now this does not mean I churn out fifty odd chunky knit cardi's on a weekly basis - like some people I know - no, all it means it that I knit the same scarf at least eight [and rising] times.

Why? You may well ask, well:

1. It's enormous fun.
2. I get so far and realise it won't be long enough so cast on fewer stitches.
3. I've found a way to make the expensive stuff eke out ... because - answers on a post it please - either ... a) I'm a genius or b) I grudgingly took a friend's  advice.

I'm not completely alone in this loony knit-fest, my next door but one caravan neighbour is far worse with these scarves and she's a proper knitter!

It was while knitting my first scarf for the - probable - sixth time that I became aware that I was knitting a few daddy-long-legs into it ... this was not mentioned in the knitting pattern! So I removed them ... er, oops ... their legs.

I had never in my life seen so many daddy-long-legs - this was at Skeggy, I've seen none since we got home - it became impossible to take a deep breath for fear of sucking one in. I heard my GOM coughing and clearing his throat a few times and can only assume that he'd forgotten to breathe through his nose.

I was working one morning, peering through my magnifying light - as you do - when I briefly looked away. When I looked back at the teeny weeny thing I'd picked up, I nearly knocked the lamp over, tipped the table up and chucked the lot on the floor [all in one movement]. Not only was my spira-doo-dah there to be inspected, I was also clutching - between left thumb and forefinger - a chuffin ENORMOUS daddy-long-legs! I'm not afraid of them, nor spiders, but unexpectedly close up, lit up and magnified is not nice.

A couple of days later while all packed up ready for home and waiting for the cat, my grumpy old man decided to make a sandwich. This was to either eat there if pussykins didn't turn up at a reasonable time, or take with us for a snack on the way home. The little bugger - cat, not grumpy - has a habit of turning up at just the wrong time so we're starving by the time we get home.

Anyway, time was moving on, the cat watched us playing bowls behind the tin hut - at a safe you-can't-reach-me-from-there-ner-ner-ne-ner-ner distance - when we decided to go in and eat.

Mmmmm, ham and daddy-long-leg sandwiches ... well I found one leg in the mayonnaise - between the ham and the lettuce. And the rest of it - well it's too late now ...

McDonalds Not In Langley Mill ... Again

I have updated in a previous post that the application to build a McDonalds on CJ Cars was refused planning permission because highways said it wasn't safe  - or words to that effect. I did mention this very fact a while back and it would have saved them a lot of manpower and money if they'd only take notice of me.

I updated an old post rather than write a separate one because I found the information by reading another blog - as it wasn't mentioned at AVBC - so wasn't really my information to share.

However, I notice by search terms being used and the subsequent pages being read, that people are still arriving at my oldest post referring to McDonalds and going no further, therefore missing the latest updates - a woman can get fed-up of linking several posts - so I decided to give in and write this and provide a link to where I originally got my info from.

Now go and look there ...

Ignorance Is Bliss

We'd been back from the tin hut by the sea for a few days but had relatively little to moan about - apart from the usual Asda wa**ers  keeping me awake in the night, and yes Bernard I finally gave in and tried earplugs but I couldn't hear anything, so had to get rid of them - the main reason for the lack of grumpiness is that I've had lots of work to do in rather a hurry, and so was cocooned in my own little bubble, totally cut off from the outside ... during this glorious weather [so I heard] boo hoo, sob.

Of course I emerged from behind my magnifying lamp eventually [Saturday] and truly wished I hadn't, it was much nicer being oblivious to Langley Mill's youff-dom.

First of all we'd returned from a family visit and we were reading a notice - about footpaths 53 and Pottery Lane - that had been attached to Mr HH's fence, but some cretin decided it needed pulling off. I waited while my grumpy old man attempted to reattach it.

During this I heard one of those mini-motorbike whatstits whizzing along Pottery Lane, and then I watched in amazement as this head went backwards and forwards - at speed - down the ramp onto Bridge Street, finally revealing itself as the tw*t on the bike. Me being me and not at all being able to keep my mouth shut, I shouted ... 'this is a footpath, not a motorbike route'.

This surly teenager totally ignored my remonstration and stopped just short of running into me. I then said ... 'I suppose you expect me to move for you' ... reply 'grunt' ... 'well, I'm not'. He had actually got a voice other than the customary teenage grunt, as he said he'd go in front of me... which he did, almost running my GOM over - while he was still farting about with that bloody notice. The youff then carried on a third of the way down Bridge Street and up an entry ... I've no idea who he is.

Having now been let loose from my workspace I decided to reacquaint myself with 'bigjobs' my super computer, this meant being in the spare room for an hour or two, tut, what a mistake. If I were anywhere else I wouldn't be able to witness more twa**ing youffs trying to break things on HH land. I may start locking myself away in a cupboard somewhere.

Much later, after examining the contents - or lack of - in my fridge, freezer and cupboards, I announced to grumpy that I was off to - begrudgingly - spend some money at that biggish corner shop just over the way. He came with me to carry my debit card.

Just before we got to our peasants ramp up to Asda we passed four girls, all about twelve or thirteen years old, pleasant and giggly, but I could have knocked their heads together ... or glared at my GOM for doing it [we've all inherited this 'glare' from my mother - it's horrible].

It ... being walk on the road to go around them as they steadfastly stuck to walking four abreast ... not me, oh no, I've finally realised who the tw*ts are, and it's us for moving out of their way, time and time again, this time I was prepared to clash elbows and anything else that got in my way as I walked along the edge of the kerb [yes I know, I'm still making way for them].

This is NOT purely a Langley Mill phenomenon as it is much discussed amongst us - tin hut dwellers - at Winthorpe [Skeggy]. We have compared notes on numerous occasions about how we automatically shift out of the way.

I was brought up to ALWAYS move for anyone older than myself - which at my age is getting increasingly more difficult - this included giving up my seat on a bus as well as moving to one side while walking along a street. To be honest I've probably forgotten how old I am when I get out of the way, but not any more!

In future, if anyone younger than me expects me to move to one side for them, they're in for a shock, cos I'm not moving - hmm, this is all supposing I remember [being my age means I'm forgetful - apparently]. In fact, just to make sure I get in someone's way, I'm off out right now to stand in the middle of a pavement somewhere ...

Letter To Mr Cameron

I received this email recently and found myself nodding and agreeing to just about everything, so I thought I'd share it with those who haven't received it yet:

Dear Mr Cameron,
      Please find below our suggestion for fixing the UK's economy.

Instead of giving billions of pounds to banks that will squander the money on lavish parties and unearned bonuses, use the following plan:

You can call it the 'Patriotic Retirement Plan'.

There are about 10 million people over the age of fifty in the workforce.
Pay them £1 million each [yes please] severance for early retirement with the following stipulations:

1. They MUST retire ... 10 million job openings - unemployment fixed
2. They MUST buy a British car ... 10 million car orders - car industry fixed.
3. They MUST either buy a house or pay off their mortgage - housing crisis fixed.
4. They MUST send their kids to school/college/university - crime rate fixed.
5. They MUST buy £100 worth of alcohol/tobacco a week [hmm?] ... And there's your money back in duty/tax etc.

It can't be any easier than that! If more money is needed, have all members of parliament pay back their falsely claimed expenses and second home allowances.

Also:

Let's put the pensioners in jail and the criminals in a nursing home.
This way the pensioners would have access to showers, hobbies and walks.
They'd get  free dental treatment and eye care.
They'd receive money instead of paying it out.
They'd receive special diets on religious grounds.
They would have constant video monitoring, so they could be helped instantly, if they fell or needed assistance.
Bedding would be washed twice a week and all clothing would be washed, ironed and returned to them.

A guard would check on them every 20 minutes and bring their meals and snacks to their cell.
They would have family visits in a suite built for that purpose.
They would have access to a library, weight room, spiritual counselling, pool and education.
Simple clothing, shoes, slippers, PJ's and legal aid would be free, on request.
Private, secure rooms for all, with an exercise outdoor yard, with gardens.
Each senior could have a PC, a TV, radio and daily phone calls.

There would be a board of directors to hear complaints, and the guards would have a code of conduct that would be strictly adhered to.

The criminals would get cold food, be left all alone and unsupervised. Laid wet and sore in a stinking bed. Lights off at 8pm, and showers once a week. Live in a tiny room and pay £600.00 per week and have no hope of ever getting out.

Think about this (more points of contention):

COWS:

Is it just me, or does anyone else find it amazing that during the mad cow epidemic, our government could track a single cow, born in Appleby almost three years before, right to the stall where she slept in the county of Cumbria?

And, they even tracked her calves to their stalls. But they are unable to locate 125,000 illegal immigrants wandering around our country. Maybe we should give each of them a cow.
It is time for us grumpy old folk of Britain to speak up! ...