Quizzing

IT APPEARS we’ve become addicts to TV quiz shows. The likes of University Challenge, Pointless and Tipping Point never go by without us giving them a viewing.

The last two we often record for later in the evening, so keen are we to get our daily “fix”.

And sometimes we feel a sense of personal triumph when we get a good answer.

It’s just a little unfortunate that the two subjects that people find the most interesting are also the two we are usually hopeless at: sport and pop music.

With the exception, perhaps, of Wimbledon we’ve no interest in sporting achievements or the people who accomplish them.

And the sort of music we do enjoy bears no relationship to contemporary pop – or indeed to the pop of the last few decades. Anything much after the 1960s is really a closed book to us.

But ask us questions on literature – especially the classical stuff – French chanson, food and wine, history and geography and we’re in our element. In other words the very subjects that most contestants dread.

So, on the odd occasion when I do get a sporty- or poppy-type question right the sense of accomplishment is all the more satisfying. Especially so when the other competitors fail to answer correctly.

I just hope we’re not getting unhealthily competitive.

A punishing therapy

I’M LYING on my side on the examination table, while the physiotherapist pummels my hip with fingers, hands and even elbows. A nice big bruise is already appearing…

And it seems, at the moment, I’m to endure this punishment twice weekly.

Rick is convinced that my hip pain is less to do with arthritis than with a lifetime of general slouchy-ness and flat feet.

Hence my new year has begun with this regular pounding.

And then, of course, there are the exercises I’m supposed to do at home – stretching, bending, leaning hard against a tennis ball wrapped in a sock.

All this is to try and re-educate my poor old muscles into giving me the support I really need.

I’m far from persuaded of the efficacy of all this; muscles that have been dormant for sixty-odd years are surely not going to suddenly spring into life, are they?

But Rick is sure of this treatment and is full of youthful enthusiasm and I don’t wish to rain on his parade.

So, my punishing therapy continues…

Changes ahoy, what?

AND FINALLY, our new Office 2013 program decides to upload on about the forty-first attempt.

See, our old PC has finally gone to cyberspace heaven – it was over ten years old, and for a computer, these days, that makes it of a decrepit oldness.

Unfortunately, it means much of our old software no longer works, either – or if it does work, not properly. And that includes our old (pirated) version of Office 2003.

I've had to bite the bullet and purchase the new suite – and that's where the fun and games have really begun.

If I was expecting a disk, I was disappointed. For the highway robbery sum of £94 I was sent an empty box!

Or at least, so it first appeared.

In fact they actually sent me a box containing download instructions and a product key number.

The idea is that you log into your Microsoft account, type in the product number and they will download your new program – or app, as they have started calling everything.

Oh dear, oh dear…

Over and over again the app began to download and then hit a problem. That's just what the message said, "We've hit a problem" – without indicting what the problem actually was.

So here am I, fuming with increasing levels of frustration, and for nearly two weeks I'm cursing Microsoft and all its works as the creations of the devil.

And I just decide to seek professional help when, early on Christmas morning, I try the download one last time and miracle of miracles, it starts to work! I'm greeted with a cheery message welcoming me to my new Office suite.

Maybe it's their idea of surprise Christmas present!

Anyway, here I am, typing out my first document on my new Word app, just in time to wish everybody a slightly belated Merry Christmas.

Better late than never, I guess…

Good to be home

HI, THERE, guys and gals, hope all’s well with you all out there in cyberland.

Once again I must apologise for my inaction on the blogging front – I’ve just come back from holidays, and I’m exhausted! I’m beginning to think I need a holiday from all these holidays!

Trouble is I’m much more active when I’m away than I am whilst at home – I’m driving much more, and pushing My Good Lady around a lot more than usual.

And it must be said rural Provence is not the easiest terrain to be pushing wheelchairs, however beautiful it may be in other respects.

Certainly, the little village where we stayed was hilly enough to get me puffing and panting. And the three-hour drive from Nice wasn’t exactly a pleasure either, especially after a horrendous flight out from Manchester’s terminal one and the brief, sleepless night at the airport hotel.

However, all these pains and frustration faded into nothing as we sat in the open air restaurant in the village square, dining out under the stars. Pure Mediterranean magic!

Unfortunately, we had to repeat the journey out on coming back. Hence my state of near exhaustion. Still, we’re slowly getting on top of things and domestic normality seeps back onto us.

And we welcome back an old friend today, too – a two-hundred year old great grand-father clock that has been out for the last month for it’s regular ten-year repair and service. And the Big Fellah has got his chimes back, too. Glorious to hear him bonging away the hours again after over a decade of silence.

So here we are, boys and girls, home again as autumn creeps up upon us with it’s “mists and mellow fruitfulness”.

And I’m pleased to say it’s good to be home.

Much exercised

WE’RE MUCH exercised, at the moment, with garden matters – as I mentioned in my last posting.

A designer chap has been round with some suggested plans, but frankly we don’t feel any of them really hits the spot.

Trouble is, we don’t quite know what we do want.

I suppose what we’d really love is for Alan Titchmarsh to ring the doorbell with a full set of plans and a team of willing helpers to transform the whole place while we luxuriate in some comfy hotel and not give the matter a second thought.

Failing this, however, we’ve had some serious head-scratching to do.

The various books and web sites on the subject we’ve looked at all agree that the first question to ask yourself is what you want to use the garden for.

And the truthful answer is, not very much. We just want a peaceful place we can sit out in on a warm, summer day where we can enjoy a nice cool drink and a game of dominoes. As much as possible the garden should be home to as varied a selection of wildlife as possible, while requiring as little attention from us as is practical.

A simple enough aspiration you would think? Not so, it seems.

Gardens left to their own devices tend to end up rather like our present one – overgrown and overrun with extraneous green matter to such an extent that we can’t even see the far end, let alone walk down to it.

There’s no such thing, it appears, as a completely labour-free garden.

We are reluctant to go down the all-concrete route to a solution, but what to do?

Like I say, we are much exercised…

A new boy in the school

WE ARE SITTING in that institutionalised emblem of middle class respectability – the local golf club.

Rather nice it is, too. What, with windows on three sides, looking out over the greens and out, panoramically, over the spectacular sweep of Morecambe Bay.

They serve a really nice pint of Tetley’s bitter here, too.

And yes, I rather shamefacedly have to admit we are the newest members here.

Personally, I feel like a new boy in the school – it’s all rather strange and unreal and I’m a bit like a fish out of water.

Never in a million years would I have believed I’d ever be member of a golf club. I’ve always been too much of an inverted snob; something in my working class roots rebels at the idea.

And yet, here I am!

Oh, the explanation is simple enough. Quite a few of our friends from the Geriatrics’ Corner of the Pub have migrated here. They’ve been happy enough to sign us in as guests, but after our third or fourth visit we began to feel it unfair for them to keep doing so.

So after a brief struggle with my conscience, I’ve decided to abandon my principles and become a member.

The class war will never miss me.

And the Tetley’s is very good.

Home ground

YES, INDEED, we’re back from our hols, as readers of My Good Lady’s web log will know.

It was a good one, too – despite the craziness of Italian motorists. Speed seems to be the only thing they care about and nothing and no one is going to slow them down. Not road conditions, not weather – and certainly not careful, elderly English drivers who just want to potter along and admire the scenery.

Still, we’re home safe and sound.

And we’re already booking our next venture abroad – the south of France this time.

In the meantime, we’ve consulted a designer to help us sort out our rather overgrown back garden.

Time was, when we first moved into this property with its rather extensive rear jardin, I was a keen gardener, and happy to have a go at keeping the thing in control.

Ill health and a general lackadaisicalness has put paid to that.

Our present jungle is overrun with self-seeded trees, a badly scratchy lawn, and borders that are a playground for weeds.

The winds of this last springtime have also left their mark, too, with fences down all over the place.

Drainage needs some serious attention to stop it becoming a rice paddy in parts, and as for the crazy paving on the patio – that’s so badly cracked and weed-strewn that it needs a serious overhaul.

All of this of course is music to the designer’s ears – he must think we’ve won the lottery or some such.

Anyhow, he’s promised to bring a tree and plant man round to see what can be done and draw up some sketches of possible improvements.

So, we’re in the market for a garden makeover, and we’re just hoping the cost isn’t too exorbitant.