Basically, when I moved to Oxford from London a few years ago, for convenience's sake, I rented this old (circa 1546 AD) cottage in a village called Forest Hill. It's called that because the village is built on a hill, with lots of trees on it. They weren't that imaginative in the olden days when it came to naming things.
Pic.No.1. This is the cottage I rented. The picture is all fuzzy because I took it a couple of years ago when potatoes technologically outstripped camera phones
As events transpired, I ended up living here for over four years, mainly because I am a lazier than Paris Hilton's right eye, and also because moving house is like sticking a knitting needle behind your kneecap. Not that I have done that, mind you. I don't knit. Or do anything vaguely 'crafty'.
Anyway, to cut a long story short, I needed to find a new house, and bloody pronto. And finding the 'right' house in the villages outside of Oxford is rarer than David Cameron coming up with a coherent strategy for anything.
So I decided that a lateral solution to the problem was needed ........ Grannies. Yep, you heard right ....... Grannies, a.k.a, Bingo Warriors.
In the course of taking Naughty George for his daily drag, I have become genial with a plethora of retired elderly people, most of whom have lived in the village for their entire lives. And they have all been horrified by the fact that my house is being sold.
Crikey, if I left the vicinity, who would rescue them in the event of a power cut, or take them on an emergency trip to the shops?
So I put on my proper sad face, and said, "can you keep your ears to the ground, and let me know if you hear of any houses becoming available?" After all, being retired, the oldies spend a significant portion of their days walking their Jack-Russell-sized dogs through the locale and visiting each other for coffees. They are indeed, a font of local knowledge. They all agreed, and I thought nothing of it.
Until today ....... I had a knock on the door from one of the Grannies ......... I shall update you on what happened in my next post [TEASE!]
On another note, I did manage to find a bit of time for a night out. That is my superhero power, that is.
In the UK, on the 5th of November we celebrate something called Guy Fawke's night, and that's what I did. Basically, it originated in 1604 AD when a bloke called Guy Fawkes and his mates, whom we shall call Dissidents, tried to blow up Parliament in an attempt to overthrow the government.
Pic.No.2 This is a picture of parliament that I nicked from the internet. Guy Fawkes tried to blow it up
They failed, and from that date onwards, Guy Fawke's night has been celebrated big time throughout the UK.
Home-made effigies of Guy Fawkes are burnt on communal bonfires, and fireworks are let off with gay abandon. Actually thinking about it, it probably sounds quite pagan ...... and was probably instigated by the Daily Mail (if it existed then). Naughty George has always hated bonfire nights, because the sound of the fireworks has always freaked him out. But the good thing is that because he has gone a bit (actually a lot) deaf this year, he luckily remained chilled (whilst sweating and stinking), in his bed.
Back to the matter in hand ..... Izzy and I went to a 'Guy Fawke's event' in the neighbouring village of Beckley. And I was lucky enough to bump into some chums the minute I arrived ......
Pic.No.3 From left to right: Graham, Tim and Cath. They might look innocent but I know for a fact that they all had quaffed Mulled Wine. Also I didn't want to publish this picture of Cath with her eyes shut, but the other picture was rubbish
Pic.No.4 This is a picture of the 'Guy Fawkes' being burnt on the bonfire, but I was too far away to capture all the action
Pic.No.5 Izzy (left) and friends playing with sparklers (man alive, sparklers smell better than petrol)
Pic.No.6 The fireworks ..... I accidentally spilled a whole cup of Mulled Wine down myself when I lifted up my camera to take this shot ...... I forgot that I had the cup in my left hand. Mulled Wine is well red, and I ended up looking like I had been stabbed
Pic.No.7 The Grand Finale ..... I missed most of it because I was chatting with Cath (who bizarrely hails from the same village as me - Barrowford - oop north)
Pic.No.8 Tim and Graham (with a Doctor Who scarf on) watching the fireworks. It was colder than a Polar Bear's chuff
So, flippin' hek, it's all change around here at the moment. I'll endeavour to keep you informed in a more timely manner than I have done in the last week.
But tell me dahlink, what schenanigans have you been up to?