Tag Archives: pork scratchings

Repack

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I just completed the process of taking everything out of my big blue bag, washing it/throwing it away, and then repacking it into my even bigger green bag (plus some new underwear and a very large bag of coffee). I hate packing, it makes me realise how little I own of any value. I’m off to Heathrow in the morning and then hopefully to Erbil if they let me in (https://oldstuffinhotplaces.com/2013/05/12/disgracing-myself-in-erbil/).

At Warmington village fete I lie on the grass drinking beer and let things get away from me

At Warmington fete I spend too much time in the village pub and end up getting abducted by morris men

I’ve tried to make the most of my six days in fair England; I went down to visit my twin for two days, who just rusticated to a tiny cottage in Oxfordshire where she has adopted an elderly cat and taken up bell ringing. I fear for her mind. She took me to a local village fete (where I became entrapped into playing the base drum for the Morris dancers), we played darts in the pub next door and went shopping for teaspoons, garden chairs and rolling pins. She is starting to nest.

We also ate a pack of Serrano ham, a pack of Parma ham and a 2kg shoulder of pork. At home I’ve managed three large sausages, two packs of baked ham, a packet of bacon, two pork chops and over half a kilo of smoked salmon. My luggage is full of pork scratchings: I am ready.

Emergency equipment: there comes a point when only pig will do

Emergency equipment: there comes a point when only pig will do

Life below the radar

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Being thrown across the bridge was all part of the fun in my day. The Enterprise seatbelts make me spit diet coke over the woman in front

Being thrown across the bridge was all part of the fun in my day: The new Enterprise seatbelts make me spit diet coke over the woman in front

It’s been nearly a week since I got back from Iraq and I’ve been making the most of my renewed opportunities. Yesterday I watched six hours of television, went to see Star Trek Into Darkness at the cinema, went to the pub where I drank five pints of mild and ate pork scratchings (the good and hairy kind) and had sausages for dinner. All my dreams are realised. Having been paid for the work in Iraq I’ve bought myself a gift of clean shirts and trainers that still have rubber on the bottom. The Inland Revenue sent me a welcome back present of yet another tax code which I’ve added to my collection. One day I will have the full set.

Mum painting fences for the elderly Japanese man next door

Mum painting fences for the elderly Japanese man next door

The Inland Revenue’s problem is part of a general problem with my life, in that I increasingly don’t exist in the UK. I don’t have a job, I don’t sign on, I don’t pay tax, I don’t pay national insurance, I don’t have a house, I don’t have a credit card, I don’t drive, I don’t give blood (anymore, due to travel history), I’m not registered with a doctor, I’m not registered with a dentist and I’m no longer registered to vote as I don’t really live anywhere. I have no debt and no assets. The government might be forgiven for thinking I’m trying to avoid them, or perhaps that I’m living in the woods stockpiling road kill and sharpening sticks for when the revolution comes.

I might not have a job, but I do have work; in fact slightly more than I have time to do. I’ve been asked to write up part of a site in Turkey I work at for the final publication, the only obstacles being that the area was excavated by someone else nearly ten years ago and I can’t read their handwriting. I’m largely relying on hazy memories of seeing the trench when I went over to borrow the excavator’s plumb bob one morning in 2004. I think there was a wall. In a further test of memory, I was contacted on Tuesday by another excavation asking if I remembered where I found a particular scrap of textile in Sudan in 2010. Errm….

me and Tigerlilly own this block

me and Tigerlilly own this block

I’m successfully distracting myself from these unfathomable questions by joining twitter and becoming drawn into the territorial wars of the neighbourhood cats. The big ginger four doors down is taking some shocking liberties with the garden furniture and might be in line for a surprise if I still have the reflexes.