Life is riddled with a procession of minor impediments

[Barrington Boots]

Dealing with a moth infestation here at Casa Boots. It turns out having a big pile of mouldering heavy metal t-shirts stored essentially on the floor is not best practice.

As a veggie and part-time hippy I try to avoid killing stuff but I've had to buy one of those horrible glue trap things and its rapildy filling up with tiny corpses.

[The Legendary Shark]

I wonder if you could hire or buy a pet bat?

How's your tooth situation? Improving, I hope.

[Barrington Boots]

I love that idea. My cat is doing his best but he's a fairly incompetent little guy and doesn't eat as many moths as I'd like.

Tooth still fairly grievous, but thank you for asking! Only two weeks till it can come out.

[JohnW]

I try to avoid killing stuff

Harden your heart.
When it comes to moths the chemical route is the only route.
Exterminate the little buggers without mercy or all your quality clobber is gone to dust.
Think of your tweeds and your broadcloths; your morning suits and your evening dress.
Think of your cravats!
Think of what Worcester society will say.

[The Legendary Shark]

I always have a bottle of oil-of-cloves on hand whenever I feel a twinge coming on. Also, chewing raw garlic gets rid of infections but is as uncomfortable as Hell. Alcohol can also be a boon during such trying times :-D

[Barrington Boots]

Luckily I have no quality clobber! Only piles of old Bolt Thrower and Entombed tshirts. Oh no wait, those are quality.
My initial glue trap seems to have winnowed out all the stupid months, as I replaced it with a fresh one and the moth survivors are carefully avoiding it.

I always have a bottle of oil-of-cloves on hand whenever I feel a twinge coming on.

Funny you should mention this - my wife suggested oil of cloves when this first flared up and she of course had some in the house. I didn't know how much oil of cloves to put on, but I was feeling pretty sore so I rubbed quite a decent amount into my gum. Turned out not only does it taste vile, but in large amounts can cause ulcers like you've never seen. My gum split like overripe fruit and I had a new level of pain to worry about for a few days.

[Le Fink]

Missed the Northern Lightshow last night - am still fending off my first COVID infection. A real smorgasbord of symptoms. Was not expecting to be covered in hives (days 1 and 2) have swelling in hands and feet (day 3) or today's skin sensitivity. It's like the 12 days of COVID. What will tomorrow bring. La Fink has it too, but hers is more boring.

[JohnW]

I had my first wallop with the big COVID stick in January. Boring symptoms included that dry persistent cough (which persisted for a week or more, kept me from sleeping, and pissed me off no end).
A more colourful symptom involved hawking up blood, but that was in the early stages when I was too fucked up to care.
Hives I could certainly have done without.
Sympathies to both Finks.

Forgot to look out for the northern lights last night but I mightn't have seen anything anyway. There's a big hill directly to my north and the light pollution is constant.

[Le Fink]

Oy. Sounds horrible John.

We're well to the south of England and surrounded by hills... but no street lights here, so it could be made out from the village at midnight:

[Dandontdare]

I need to find a new barber. Been going to the same tiny shop for nearly 30 years, turned up today and there's a notice in the window from his son saying that he died. When I first started going they used to smoke roll ups while cutting my hair and never bothered customers with unwanted chat about where you're going on holiday

[Dandontdare]

[Dandontdare]

/quote]oops replied rather than edited

[Fortnight]

Sometimes a thread is a self-fulfilling prophecy.

[The Legendary Shark]

In case anyone is interested (and, let's face it, why would you be?), here's a Dug update.

I spent a chunk of the winter staking cut branches and logs along the edges of our paths in the Woodland. They had to be fairly solidly positioned and locked because campers' juves tend to kick them about if they're not. I was quite proud of the result.

Dug has pulled them all up because weeds. You can probably guess how he reacted when I suggested he leave the edging in place and weed around it, like everyone else. "You're not my f<(?!%g boss!" Deep breaths, Sharky, count to ten. Eventually, the Boss convinced him to stop, which he kind of did - now he only pulls up the bits he "has to." Okay, maybe count to twenty...

Dug next concentrated his baffling influence on our Council recycling bins, of which we pay for four. We have a simple system whereby when the bins are full we stop filling them. Not Dug. Dug has procured a caravan step from somewhere and uses it to climb into the bins and, through jumping up and down, compress the contents to such an extent that the bins feel like they're filled with neutron stars. He was really proud of this achievement until (as he was warned) the bin men refused to pick up the bins because none of them possess the strength of Hercules. His solution was to plaster largely illegible stickers on the bins warning against filling them with soil. (To cut a long story short, at the time there were two French lads volunteering and one of them tipped soil into the bins. Igor saw this and put the French lad straight, no fuss, no arguing, no bother - but Dug was watching.) This soil, he said, was the cause of the problem and not his anthropogenic compressions. It was France's fault, not his. Okay, so maybe count to thirty.

Not content with the levels of chaos he's so far introduced, Dug has now set his sights on my compost bins. They're not particularly elegant, sturdy or well designed, being nothing more than a bunch of old pallets wired together and supported by second-hand fence posts arranged into four bays into which grass cuttings and weeds are deposited, there to rot down ready to be returned to the woodland as fertiliser in the spring. But they do the job. Or they did, until Dug pulled them all up.

Now, don't get me wrong - he's done a good job of tidying up the area and bringing the piles of compost into a more ordered configuration. He has worked very hard, there's no denying that, and I will argue with anyone who calls Dug lazy. When I spotted this latest project of his (he starts things without telling anybody*) he'd already been at it largely unobserved for three days. So I counted to thirty and approached him.

"Hey Dug," I said, "you've done a good job clearing all these weeds away from the bays." I didn't mention the fact that all the bays were in pieces because I've come to recognise that calling attention to such things is the equivalent of kicking a bucket of sweaty nitroglycerine.

He said nothing and looked at me as if I'd just told him the sky is blue. I forced a smile and then asked, "So, what's the plan for the rest of it?"

"I'm sorting it out," he said, as if this should be obvious.

"Sorting it out how?" I asked. I should have known better.

"I am sick to death of having to explain every little thing I f*cking do to every c*nt in the place!" He stormed off. Then he changed his mind and stormed back again.

"Look, Dug, I just want to know what you're planning because maybe I can..." I began.

He marched up to me, sticking his chest into my belly, and scowled up at me. "Am I your subordinate?"

"What?"

"Am I your f*cking subordinate?"

"Well," I said carefully, struggling to keep it together, "technically yes."

His eyes opened wider than eyes really should and he spluttered and grunted. "Boll*cks! You're not above me! You're not my boss! I wouldn't work for you if you were the last man on Earth! You're a bastard!" He then stormed off again, but in a circle that took him back to his task. I said something uncharitable (I'm only human) and left him to it. Maybe count to... What are we up to now? Whatever. I don't think there are enough numbers.

Now, I'm not given to taking pleasure in the problems of others - but sometimes it's hard not to. A couple of days ago, I was the only one working at the campsite. I was trimming hedges and listening to an audiobook, lost in thought, when suddenly a timid voice grumped up behind me.

"Er, Sharky**?"

I sighed and turned to look at Dug, expecting another tirade. But something was wrong. He looked almost... humble.

I narrowed my eyes and said, cautiously, "What's to do?"

He shuffled his feet and mumbled something about his caravan. I asked him if it was leaking again and he shook his head. "Locked myself out," he mumbled.

"No problem," I said, relieved that this was going to be an easy problem to solve. "We've a spare set of keys in the house. Come on, I'll dig 'em out."

"Er," he said, finding his feet very interesting, "no. I don't like the idea of somebody else having keys to my (!) caravan, so I've got them both."

"And they're both locked in the caravan?" He nodded. "I see," I said. "And I suppose all the windows are closed?"

"Yes. You see, I don't like... er..." His voice trailed off in utter embarrassment but I took pity on him and jimmied one of the windows open with a length of stiff wire.

His explanation for this mishap was that there's obviously something wrong with the latch on the caravan door and that it needs replacing as a matter of some urgency. But I know better. From deductive reasoning and eyewitness accounts, Dug's temper locked him out. He was cooking his breakfast when the power tripped, interrupting his bacon. This obviously unacceptable state of affairs pulled his pin and he exploded out of his caravan and slammed the door hard behind him, accidentally locking it and causing two horses in a neighbouring field to bolt. Now I know that it's petty and unworthy of a man who professes to be trying to be better, but I am experiencing a not inconsiderable degree of satisfaction in knowing that Dug's faulty latch theory is a lie. Even more delicious, though, is the fact that he knows that I know.





*Dug has decided that the normal working hours the rest of us adhere to are not for him. Consequently, he seems to sneak into work any time after noon and finishes any time up to dusk. I don't know what hours he works and I don't know which days he works.

** Not my real name.

[Funt Solo]

Is this like a Jekyll & Hyde tale? Like, are you Dug? (I realize this is a foolish question, as, whether or not I'm right, you would provide the same answer.)