A friend of mine was in a shop recently and noticed they had some clangers for sale.
‘Do you have any soup dragons?’ he enquired.
‘Yes,’ replied the assistant. ‘I think they’re next to the casseroles.’
The new DVD player has arrived and has been officially inspected by Boll.
Newcastle’s apparently the loudest place in the UK.
I find that odd. Having lived in both London and Newcastle, I’d definitely say the capital was louder. When I lived in Marylebone – right in the centre – I could tell what time of night it was by the sound of the traffic outside. 4-430 am was the only time you could hear individual vehicles with a short gap in between. At all other times, it was full-on traffic rumble 24/7.
On the other hand, Newcastle’s the most difficult city in England for recording interviews in the street, thanks to those deafening street-cleaning buggy things and old men shouting ‘Cruuuunniggguuuuell!!!’ (‘Chronicle’ – a newspaper).
And the conversation levels are undoubtedly louder – especially on public transport, where it’s compulsory to talk. Buses in Newcastle sound like hen coops for deranged chickens. Not so in London, where speaking on the tube is a sure sign of madness.
A happy ending to the washing machine saga, which I’m sure you’ll agree has been gripping beyond belief.
It’s all plumbed in and working, thanks to Pete – my only practical friend.
The house is now like an inner-city laundrette as I catch up on a month’s washing. I’ve stocked up on Comfort Vaporesse and am looking forward to a glamorous evening’s ironing.