I think I’m turning into a grumpy old man.
This might be because I’m getting older, or more grumpy, or both. I’ve always been a man and so has my wife, Brian.
I don’t read the Daily Mail because the Sudoku is rubbish and because I am sent links to the online sillier stories on a daily basis, and I’m paranoid about missing emails, so I don’t use a spam filter, so I get them whether I want to, or not, the latter being the case.
I felt the need to set up this iBlog. I don’t expect anyone to read it, nor discuss it, and I care neither whit nor jot whether anyone does or not. It makes me feel better when I hit the Publish knob. Not that I have done so, yet. It’s my first blog; I expect when I do hit the tit the whole thing will vanish in a myriad of flashing lights and a puff of smoke.
But I shall carry on regardless.
Every day for ages I have read either a newspaper or the Bee Bee Sea webnews, and every day for ages I have found something to be grumpy about. Not just because the silly government has yet again managed to crawl out of the alligator pit smelling quite unlike alligator shit, but because what I’m reading is six-fingered-windowlicker mentality.
Today’s startling revelation is that the Plod are offering an escort home from the cash machine. Apparently anyone can use it, you just ring up Whitehall 1212 and ask for a policeman, and one will turn up in a Dixon of Dock Green style, sporting a blue pointy hat and greeting you with a cheery ‘Evenin’, all!’ He will then escort you home with your cash and see you safely inside, and he won’t even ask for a tip.
Now, I have nothing against marketing types in general, but this smacks of spin-gone-mad. The police force is understaffed, overworked and underfunded. They don’t really need extra duties such as this. And I could go on for hours about what a waste of public money it is, why don’t they go and catch criminals, and so on. But no. My grumpiness is because everything is so illogical.
Supposing that Mrs Oldlady is petrified that her fifty quid shopping money is going to be taken off her in a street brawl by a hooded gunman. There’s nothing wrong with giving her a police escort through the streets of Tavistock to her cottage by the sea. But what, exactly, is she going to do with the cash? Perhaps put it under the mattress, where it will earn her slightly more interest than the bank offers. Perhaps put it in the biscuit tin to pay the milkman, the window cleaner, and the boy scout who comes for bob-a-job week (does that still happen?)
More than likely, though, the shopping money will be for shopping. Ocado don’t take cash on delivery. nor do the T word, nor Sainsbury’s. So, more than likely, she will be going to the shops. With no police escort this time.
See the silliness? I do so enjoy being put right so if you can see any other logical, sensible explanation which I have missed in my ignorance, please feel free to post. There is probably a Comment, Post, or similar button up there or down there. I don’t know, I haven’t done a blog yet.
[presses Publish knob ...]