Getting on the internet has been very problematic recently, but hopefully I�ll manage to get this blog up posted, just to prove to you all that I�m still alive.�

RIP The-Man-Who-Lived-At-The-End-Of-My-Garden

I rushed home last Thursday to attend the funeral of the man who lives at the end of our garden (he wasn�t a hermit who�d moved in near my blackberry bush � it�s more accurate to say his garden can be accessed via the end of my garden.)� Anyway, I know that no-one who reads this blog knew him, but I felt I couldn�t let his passing go without marking it in some way, and this is the only outlet I have, so I�m afraid this is where I shall be doing it.

I first heard about The-Man-Who-Lived-At-The-End-Of-My-Garden from a neighbour a couple of days after moving to the sleepy little village of Aquis-of-the-Romans.� They told me a large bird had found its way down their chimney, and had sadly broken its wing in the process.� It was obviously in some distress, and they had felt that merely releasing it back into the wild would leave it vulnerable to a horrific death at the hands (claws?) of a local cat, or other unsavoury predator.� The kindest thing to do, they decided, was to despatch it quickly and humanely.� However, neither of them felt they had it in them, so they called for The-Man-Who-Lived-At-The-End-Of-My-Garden.� Like many generations before him, The-Man-Who had been born in the sleepy little village of Aquis-of-the-Romans, and had been brought up working on the local farms.� He lived and breathed the countryside, and the local flora and fauna were very much woven into the fabric of his life.� He therefore was happy to perform this kindest of acts on the poor bird, with neither a flinch nor hesitation.

I met him in person a few days later, and we hit it off immediately.� His knowledge of The Great Outdoors was, frankly, gob-smacking, and I lapped it up.� Many�s the hour we spent silhouetted against the dying twilight, with him imparting to me the ways of the countryside, telling me all about his love for the Animal Kingdom (and, more specifically, how to shoot at, kill and cook bits of it.)� I�ll miss those chats very much.� A big hole has been left behind him � RIP The-Man-Who.

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RIP iPod

It�s said that it�s every nerd�s dream to own an iPhone without giving any money to the Apple Corporation.� Thanks to an unfortunate event in a French Hotel, I�m now halfway to that dream.

I had been listening to the truly excellent �A History of Rome� podcast on my trusty (and much beloved) old iPod Touch, when the time came to brush my teeth.� Unable to drag myself away from this gripping retelling of the story of Rome�s long history, I plugged in the headphones, placed the iPod on the side of the washbasin, and commenced my ablutions.� However, during the rinsing process, my hand caught in the headphone cable, and the poor iPod was knocked towards the adjacent toilet.� As it reached the length of the cord, there was a millisecond of hope that I�d saved the thing, but it only paused slightly in its descent, before the plug and socket parted company, and the iPod was left to its inevitable fate.� Splash!� Despite several nights on the radiator, it never recovered.� A big hole has been left behind it � RIP My iPod.

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RIP A Big Pile of Cash

Moving the story on, the above event coincided with my old mobile phone starting to play up.� Nothing too much to worry about (it only cost me about a tenner when it was new), but now I needed both a new iPod, and a new phone.� The solution was simple � combine the two devices, and buy an iPhone.� Which I did.� And I love it.� A lot!� And the device itself was around the same price as an iPod Touch (much of that the money went to the Apple Corporation, so only half of the dream was realised).� Yes, I�m having to pay twice the amount in a month that I used to pay in a quarter, but I�ll just have to tighten my belt elsewhere, I suppose.� I should have listened more carefully to The-Man-Who, when he told me how to pluck, skin and gut a pheasant.

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