Queen bee
"I suppose I'd better just lie down and get it over with," said Carolyn, the other week.
"Who do you think you are, Queen Victoria?" I asked.
She was talking about photographing bees:
Obviously.
Comparing the prices
Approaching the breakfast cereals in Tesco on Thursday, I saw a smartly dressed elderly gentleman standing by the Bran Flakes apparently in some sort of crisis. So I turned about and went to buy some Yorkshire Tea instead.
When I returned, the elderly gentleman was still there, gazing into the Bran Flakes. So I sneaked round the side of him and removed a packet from the shelf.
"DON'T BUY THOSE!" he exclaimed, triumphantly. I froze. "Look! You can buy two 500g packets for the same price as a 750g packet!"
In the background, I saw an elderly lady with a shopping trolley shake her head in exasperation and walk away. I presumed she must be his wife.
I pushed the 750g packet of Bran Flakes back on to the shelf and picked up two 500g packets instead. "Thank you," I said.
"People don't look, you see," said the elderly man. "You need to check these things out. Compare the prices!"
I didn't point out that I usually do check these things out, and that I usually do compare the prices, but, on this particular occasion, a well-dressed elderly gentleman happened to be standing in front of them.
"You're not thinking of buying vinegar, by any chance, are you?" the elderly gentleman asked. I confirmed that I indeed wasn't. "Only you can get two half-size bottles for less than the price of a full-size bottle. It's crazy!"
"Crazy," I agreed.
"I wrote them a letter."
"…And, when you've finished, you end up with two bottles instead of one!" I observed, entering into the spirit of things.
"Yes!" said the elderly gentleman. "Not that that's much good these days. You can't take them back any more. They used to give you money back for your old pop bottles, you know. But you'll be too young to remember that."
I informed the elderly gentleman that, au contraire, I did indeed remember taking pop bottles back.
"We used to get a ha'penny each for them!" he said.
"I think we used to get 10p," I replied.
"Ten pee!" exclaimed the elderly gentleman in astonishment, apparently having worked out how I managed to have the wherewithall to be able to fritter away good money on 750g packets on Bran Flakes.
I thanked the elderly gentleman for his help, bade him farewell, and, as I headed towards the frozen fish, thought to myself, That's me in twenty years, that is.
Or ten, more likely.
Reality bites
Have you ever read such nonsense in your life? (Other than on this website, obviously):
I'm pretty sure we would all remember being bitten in the head by a sodding gorilla!
Heron v Dolphin
I know what you've been wondering all of these years. It's written all over your face: Where can I find a photograph of a heron being startled by a dolphin?
My friend, your search is over:
One of the many blurry snaps from my recent holiday.
Hols
We're off for a week's holiday in the land of the leek and the male-voice choir.
In the meantime, feel free to talk amongst yourselves.
ISS
Taken very hurriedly outside my house this evening. The black line is a telegraph wire. The white line is the International Space Station.
True story: Last year, my mate Karen received a phone call from the International Space Station. She was out. So the astronaut left a message that he'd call back later. Which he did.
I'll Get the Ice-Creams
(Stuff came out my nose.)
Oh no! Oh no! Oh no!
While I was in the chemist's yesterday, stocking up on my illegal stash of hydrocortisone cream, I couldn't help noticing a gentleman wearing a bright blue cloak and tricorne hat browsing through the non-prescription medicines. In any other town in England, this man's garb might have been considered a bit unusual, but this is Hebden Bridge, and we're used to oddballs.
It turned out that the gentleman in question was the chap above: Les Cutts, the Halifax town crier, who is in town to compère the Hebden Howler competition, wherein town criers from the length and breadth of the country compete to see who can shout the loudest. Or something like that.
Town criers are like morris men, people who pretend to be statues, and Big Issue sellers: I am glad that other places have them, but I don't particularly want them drawing attention to themselves in my hometown, thank you very much. (And don't get me started on so-called mime-artists.)
Then it occurred to me, what kind of ridiculous job is town crier anyway? It's the twenty-first century for Pete's sake! We all have iPhones and RSS readers these days. We don't need some loud-mouthed hooligan yelling the news at us. We can get that off the telly.
Still, though.
I wonder how they recruit town criers. Advertising for them in the local paper would demonstrate the utter pointlessness of the job: we've got a local newspaper; we don't need a town crier. I suppose, if they were going to do it properly, they would make the outgoing town crier yell out advertisements for their replacement. But that would mean that no town which didn't already have a town crier would ever be able to recruit one. Which is fine by me.
I've been thinking about this a lot, you can tell.
I didn't get to see what the Halifax town crier was buying in the chemist's. I more than half suspect it was throat lozenges.
Kitty litter
Darwin, Shakespeare, Nelson, Churchill, Newton… Bale.
It's not every day that someone new earns their place in the pantheon of all-time Great British Heroes. But that is exactly what Mary Bale (spinster, 45) did yesterday when this moment of selfless bravery came to light:
You'd have to have a heart of stone not to be moved by such heroism.
Come on, Your Majesty: a damehood is surely in order.