A Stroud Pub Trip Review – From Wwwwwwwwwwwwwaaaaay Back!
There a trip over to Stroud recently. I could’ve blogged about this on t’other blog, but the love affair with Blogger was over some time ago. It was a trip to be of many firsts.
I got to have a bit of a nose around Moosh’s lovely little newish house before we hit the Farmers’ Market. I learnt it’s now unwise to mention laminate flooring in Moosh’s presence, specifically the laying of said material. The slightest mutter could lead to several minutes of deranged repetition of the words: “It’s not coming up! It’s not coming up!” Appropriate action in the event of you encountering this phenomenon is to back away and offer tea once the spitting and twitching has eased a little.
As a side note: The garage door should definitely be painted purple with silver strips, join the campaign!
Off we toddled to the Farmers’ Market, that’s incorrect, we drove there. Again, wrong! We were driven there, by the lovely A. Exiting the car with some relief – I thought travel sickness had left me for sunnier climes, but it appears not to be – we marched gently ascended the hill. Neither of us had any specific agenda for the market, just a general nosey around like we normally do. We meandered past the stalls, briefly looking at some and occasionally taking a greater interest in others. Moosh took such a fancy to some Vampire Relish (good with cheese in big sandwiches, apparently) on the garlic stall that she actually bought some, an extremely rare event at the Farmers’ Market for either of us.
Past the crystal and olive stalls (not together) and Over Farm’s stall came into view. There was a bit of a bone-chilling wind blowing that day and the poor solitary guy trying to serve the customers swarming around the produce didn’t look a happy bunny. I was quite happy as there was masses of kale – 85p per branch, or £2 for three bits. I took the 3 for £2 offer. I’ve never witnessed someone with red-looking, frozen fingers trying to struggle to open a carrier bag and shove a large unwieldy stem of kale into it, whilst fighting the wind as well, without any assistance. I would have helped, but this drama was occurring on the other side of the heavily-laden table of veg.
We wandered a little more around and after both buying some russet apples and a bottle of perry (Moosh again), we headed for some warmth and a soothing cup of tea. I had squeezed two cups out of a pot of Earl Grey and Moosh supped at hot chocolate. It was busy in that little place, and I felt a little conspicuous by carrying three rather large bags of kale, which had a chair all to themselves. How this kale was so badly mistreated but also well looked after during its long day out in Stroud.
Revived, we once again headed out and meandered around the usual haunts. I’m almost getting to know and remember the place now. Stroud’s a rather nice place to wander round, somewhat more so when there isn’t a force 9 gale blowing. It’s a busy little place, which on Saturday afternoons, and I suspect school holidays, fills up with gangs of kids, like every other town centre in the country. But there are less chav-types in Stroud than, say, Gloucester.
Soon it came beer time. This is another traditional aspect of any trip to Stroud, but more so on the first and third Saturdays of the month. The pub of choice this time was The Retreat. I couldn’t give you instructions on how to find the place but someone else can.
There was a slight quandary as to what we should start with, and it was very nearly some Kronenberg, but the lore of something different won over and beyond all else. A half each of strawberry beer was bought and tentatively supped for a the first few seconds. It was quickly decided that this was possibly a very girlly beer, but nonetheless utterly delicious.
The Retreat is a nice pub, not a chav in sight on this particular visit. A lively lunchtime crowd, but I could still hold a conversation with Moosh.
(And that was as far as I got, before my brain failed on so many levels. As it has ever since. It did before, but I don’t like to mention that too often. So, due to this post being sat around with no one to read for too long, I’m gonna add the bit of an email Moosh sent me regarding this, and just leave it at that. Unless I should remember certain aspects of it, thanks to the Random Bollockness From Pubs I be writing up.)
The strawberry beer pub was called The Retreat and then mad drunken old incest man pub was called The Queen Vic. Both very nice 
we must do it again sometime (but perhaps without the mad drunken old men this time?)
So, I will be performing a perfume check on you before we leave the house. What is it with you? You attract really mad drunk people! Maybe it’s not your perfume? Do you have this problem when out with Ms PG-Tips?
I think you have to mention the Kale. From the first struggling into the bag by the poor little man, to the carrying around from pub to pub, right down to the eating it for *every* meal for a week. Hehehe. They should ration kale into the small packets, like they do with sugar. Very sensible.
Don’t forget the we just zeros and ones man theory. But that will take some blogging. And possibly more strawberry beer to re-explore the ideas that made sense at the time
OK, well I’m off. Everything’s broken at the moment – the website is broken, the membership database is broken and sending out emails randomly. Gahhhhh. And it’s all up to me to fix. And I don’t have a clue where to start. Feck. Okely-dokely, skype me if you come online before 4.30…
Mostly Bea Whale, with email from Moosh
The voice is doing it again!!!
For a good long while now, I've secretly coveted a certain template for this here blog. I was able to download it and admire it a little more. I may have stroked the screen a little whilst looking at it, but I won’t admit it. Ahh, umm buggeration. But that was all I could do with it. I have scratched my head to the point of severe blood loss, and have achieved precisely bugger all.
I even consulted a so-called interwebby expert. Pah! All those years of training and work-based faffery have obviously been for nothing. She can’t even help this poor computer dunce to get a Blogger template to work. (^_~)
I thought about moving the blog again, so I wandered around and found WordPress was most to my liking, being an ever increasing control freak. It’s a shame that the little voice (person?) in my head keeps on making a noise that I’d make if I were experiencing extreme toothache each time I try to understand WordPress’s complexity. Plus, the whole hosting thing is an issue: 1. I’m too tight and more importantly, too broke to pay for such a service, and 2. I can’t justify doing so. The readership for this site, whilst valued higher than you’re likely to be anywhere else, isn’t staggering.
I may have just figured out the image hosting problem, boy, did that take up vast amounts of brain power, but it still looks nothing like it should. Perhaps in the right place in Blogger it’ll all come right. But that means more tinkering. And it’s almost time for me to abandon my computer session for today – carer duties to attend to. Besides, I’m a chicken when it comes to messing with the Blogger template section.
Well, one might as well completely forget everything written there, as the move has been made. WordPress rules. Or something.
Thinking about not thinking, or the up my own arse post
I've regularly pondered to myself as to exactly why I do this, blog that is. I could have kept my waffle confined to a diary, but the likelihood of never being able to read back my own handwriting is rather high. Also it would mean that I wouldn't try to make it readable, for myself, let alone anyone else. I just wouldn't bother using words I couldn't spell, or spell them how I think they should be spelt – thus increasing the unreadable factor by 10. What's the point in digging out a dictionary when a best guess will do when the only eyes ever likely to glance at the scrawl will be mine? The entries would also shrink. I'd probably stop using proper grammar altogether and resort to some strange form of notation.
So, scrawled words, badly spelt and probably in a shorthand of my own invention would result in a notebook of unintelligible nonsense.
I know this would be true because I've tried to keep a diary. I bought a page-a-day blue hardback to start last year, with the full intention of writing in it everyday. I lasted about 4 months. As well as the above mentioned trouble, I had nothing to write about. My life is remarkably empty and dull. People can easily say that nothing happened today, but I think I've probably got the monopoly on the dreary, humdrum existence.
That was partly why I bought the laptop, to record some of the slightly more interesting moments and thoughts, instead of those thoughts swirling around my brain for the night, keeping me awake, when I really wanted to sleep. And because the dreams, thoughts, views don’t make frequent visits, I’d never be able to the regular daily entry.
When I read other people’s blogs I’m overwhelming sad that I can’t write about something of interest, or at least write.
I can sympathise those women who are stuck at home with small children to care for. Having no half decent human conversation is a real killer to proper thought. I do have reasonably intelligent thoughts occasionally, but they are often completely lost on those around me. I’m on my own throughout the daytime, alone with mother. I’d love to be able to converse with her, but any attempts to dig away at the past results in a one-sided questioning, with the only answers being “Yes, No”; “No, Yes” (the second answer is the one to take); “this one”; “that one”; some slightly tuneless tune that I have no way of guessing and lots and lots of ummms. All the thoughts and memories are in there, there’s just no way of getting to them, locked up because her speech and language capabilities were stolen.
I once had a brain. It was wonderful being able to think; to work the grey matter; to solve puzzles and problems, to spell, to do more complicated maths than just long multiplication. Now it's mostly an empty void. I do think up very strange stuff, and I could probably convert it into a readable mass, but I think what's the point? I know should keep this blog for my own amusement; it shouldn't be work, except perhaps to exercise my underused brain.
Don't use it, lose it – sadly far too true. Be it brain power, handwriting skills or your washing.
I am going to create an “I am” post page. I could have created a 100 things list, but I'd never reach 50. Plus, everyone does that, so I'm doing something different. Ha ha! brain usage in operation. The I am post has been maturing in the drafts section for almost 6 months now, so I thought it about time it got an airing. This very post has been fermenting in a dark spot of my head for far too long as well.
I'm off to read this week's edition of NewScientist, as in-between doing all of my boring chores.
Good Afternoon to you all….
In my delvings into early Christian history, I still haven't learnt why it's Good Friday. Well, I do know, but why name it a good day when your beloved lord was executed in a typically sadist Roman fashion?
Maybe a more enlightened person could fill me in on this small matter.
I can't view this time of year via Christian eyes/mindset. I go back to the pagan ways, yes, I'm leaning that way again but with a slightly different way of thinking.
Did you know that hot cross buns are essentially pagan? Like so much of the other symbols and paraphernalia of Easter.
They were originally symbols of pagan rights and the crosses on the top marked the four seasons of the year and the four points of the compass.
Festive spiced cakes where known to the Greeks & Romans, and the church, doing what they do best, adopted the tradition to fit their own needs.
Centuries ago, it was believed that if someone went on a long journey, a hot cross bun nailed to the beam of the door would bring them back safely. Something of an insurance policy, a lot cheaper than today's policies, but I don't think it would be quite as usual in an emergency.
I have to name and thank my local newspaper for this bit of trivia. They don't know about this though.
