Well, it looked like a normal holiday day with Jof ie not much. I did attack her a few times too often and she did battle endlessly with online webchat and call-centre people about such arcane devices as 'why are you charging me for a tablet I cancelled 3 years ago?', but other than that, all was quiet as a mouse. Unless it's one of those giant man-eating trumpet mice you get in the Horn of Africa.
But then Bud came home 2 hours early because his job finished today and we are now destitute and we have had to sell the family pewter and are packing up our troubles in my old swimming rucksack and heading west in a mule train. The going will be tough and there will be rattlesnakes but we have our god (which is me) so we'll eat those darned rattlesnakes and talk like the guy with the telescope in Blazing Saddles, goldurnit. He has survived 12 'Rounds of Redundancies' in the last 15 years but it seems 13th time unlucky.
But it was a sunny day and far too late we shipped out in the old jalopy to the seafront where Jof played me at Numbskull Golf while Bud went for a run. Crazy Golf is one thing, but as it's 3 days before the end of the season, the area was deserted and the Golf course had suffered a summer's worth of underinvestment, late-night drunken students nicking the model clowns and houses, and the attentions of non-toilet-trained seagulls. Thus it was downgraded to Numbskull Golf and we went from hole to hole wobbling the ramps, picking up the windmills and wondering what 13th wonder of the world should have been in the big empty patch in the middle of hole 7. On the way out, we asked the Chap-In-The-Booth and he said that his designer-built course was perfectly OK until it was made a free attraction during the recent Victorious Festival, with its transient tenty clientele with their snortable vodkas and cigarettes of forgetfulness. Later, I watched the Dambusters-based Carling Black Label Beer commercial (1990) on Youtube and dissed it totally, favouring Minecraft and Disney-Tarzan.
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