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Caldrail's blog is missing. Or at least the last weeks entry is. Well, no, not really, I just forgot to write one. So I apologise for the tension this had caused around the world as people bite their nails hopin g my next entry will magically appear. David Cameron and Ed Milliband exchanged insults in an angry row. Three schoolgrils gave up and went to Syria. Even Jeremy Clarkson punched his producer over an argument about it and caused the BBC a multi million pound commercial loss. Sorry about that. Lucky for me I'm not actually responsible isn't it? As it happens I've also been leaving my emails untounched for a couple of weeks. Although I've been employed for three months now the many and various agencies are still sending job laerts regularly. Last week I got a phone call from an agency asking if I wanted to do two weeks labour in a role in which my certification has lapsed, that I have no qualification for, and is in the next county. No. Not really. And do they expect me to be available the next morning? Perhaps they ought to read my CV properly. I was trained for a decade to write one after all. Out! With most of my time devoted either to sleeping, shopping, or working, I've had little time to wander around my usual haunts. I popped into the local aprk on my way to the library this morning and yes, the birds are still fighting. One goose has clearly become unpopular, with the others evicting it very loudly. Know how you fell buddy. It's like my last claims advisor. She trampled me into the dust, squished my indentity, and then began trying to recreate me as an embodiement of a figment of her imagination. Turning me into someone I don't know, don't understand, or even like. And I was supposed to get a job while I was trapped in psychological quicksand? Ridiculous. Like all women, she believed she could change me. Only this time she had the authority to do it. Get On With It! Lately I've been doing less floor sweeping and more pallet collection at work. Not sure which is the most tiring. Sweeping the floors involves walking all day and constant bending down to pick up rubbish. Pallet collection requires guiding an electric truck around everyone elses in tight spaces with the clock ticking, lifting one pallet after another onto a pile for the lads to use on the container bay, and some of those pallets are seriously heavy without any load on them. The warehouse boss was wandering around the other day, as he often does, and stopped by a bunch of guys who were doing the sweeping job I used to do alone while I got on with the pallets. "You've all done very weell" He told them, to my utter chagrin, since they amble about and haven't been doing the job for longer than a week or two. "Credit where credit is due". Really? Hello, Mr Boss, I'm over here.... No? Typical. But it isn't all mindless tedium and hard work. The last time I got a pallet truck out I noticed the meter was quite low, only three bars out of thirty, and it looked unlikely the truck would survive the whole shift without the battery going flat. Those vehicles are at a premium. It's a wonder fights don't break out over who gets to drive one. Then I noticed another truck out in the warehouse with twenty bars. Some of the lads thought I was trying to do something sneaky, but no, I did speak to the colleague whose truck it was and we agreed under the circumstances that a swap was okay. Shortly after I had to take a toilet break. It happens, even to the best of us, and certainly to those of us with fifty year old bladders and energy drink habits. When I came out, my truck meter said two bars. What the...?!!!!! As it happened I didn't run of electricity. Pallets were delivered all day, I became tired and broken by the end of the shift, and the managers were happy. Two bars on my wagon, and ah'm still rollin' along.... Language Of The Week Definitely Polish. With so many eastern europeans in the warehouse it's difficult to avoid hearing it, a strange arcane tongue impossible to understand, and I suspect those pesky poles know it. So I'm making an effort to learn a litle Polish. As it happens some of the lads are delighted, and take great pleasure in pointing out that my pronounciation is hopelessly wrong. But I'm getting there... One word at a time... do widzenia!

There's an election in the wind. My first clue was that piece of card posted through the dor telling me I can vote. The second clue was a couple of coaches parked near the library with signs telling me that our local minister of parliament was in town talking to citizens, promising them the Earth, and asking for their vote to make it possible. Makes a change from the Jesus brigade I suppose, even if the preaching isn't much different. I don't know about you, but I find the Promised Land is something I've heard about all too often. We never seem to get there do we? Maybe that's because if we did we wouldn't need ministers of parliament any more and they'd be out of a job. So get those votes in now and join in the nail biting television coverage of the vote counting to see who will lead us into the next round of Prime Ministers Questions and all those arguments about whose policies are whose. As to who this MP was I have no idea. Apparently he's already representing Swindon North. Guess that explains everytthing. Thing is though there was a gentleman talking to a couple of burly security people who bore an extraordinary resemblance to Ed Millband, the Labour Party fuhrer. Couldn't have been of course. Ed Milliband is a charismatic leader of men, a giant of politics, a fearless reformer and visionary, able to leap tall buildings in a single bound and crush men's skulls with his little toe. Ed Millipede then. To be honest I couldn't care less who he was or why he was there. I did notice however he took great delight in poking fun at my expense in public. Twice. Well, it's only fair then that I poke fun back. In front of the entire Inter-World-Wide-Web-Net in glorious broadband. Oh how social media haunts us all.... Nice cardie Mr Millipede. Looks like genuine unwashed Hebridean yak wool. Birthday present maybe? Or is that the uniform a party leader wears in covert missions into enemy held rural towns? I only mention the cardie because it genuinely happens to be the most impressive thing about you. Not very tall are you? The second item on my lambasting itinerary is confirmation that my anatomy is indeed fully functional. Laugh all you want, but I got a friendly smile from a rather attracive female receptionist that day and I'll be seeing her again shortly. You had to make do with two burly policemen. Takes all sorts I guess... Online Dating Of The Week Some people think I'm childish. Playing trains, at my age? The men wonder why I'm not out there every night shagging women. Women complain I'm not breeding enough babies for them to go gooey over. Admittedly I do behave a little bit less than calm and businesslike sometimes, but then, why would I want to be a stereotypical cardboard cut-out living in miserable mediocrity? Ye gods what a dull world you people live in. No wonder you all want to get blind steaming drunk. Let me tell you something World. As James May showed scientifically on television (he does things properly you see) model trains are without doubt the one thing that adults will forget football for, although he did neglect to factor in the influence of copious amunts of lager. As for shagging women, I really don't mind putting aside the model trains for the odd bonk or two. As it happens, I discovered the other night that there's a rule of thumb for finding the perfect age of your prospective partner. Apparentl;y the ideal woman's age is half the man's plus seven. That means I really can still shag a woman of child bearing age safe in the knowledge she's perfect for me and that my anatomy is still expected to function as expected. It comes fully tested after al, as Mr Millpede kindly confirmed for us all. So ladies, if you're 33 years old, single, want to breed little Caldrails, and have a benign attitude toward model trains, Roman history, supercars, and military surplus trousers, why not get in touch? I only bite if asked to.

Must be a rainy day. The library is half empty. Oh well, at least the early morning rush for a computer isn't the usual death before dishonour charge up the stairs. I see a certain youngster has been released from prison (he was jailed for drug dealing) and even he isn't bounding up the stairs the way he normally would. Actually most of the familiar characters are somewhere else. The guy who likes to threaten me every time a I say anything, the woman who thinks the library is her personal servant, the lady who doesn't know she hums to herself, the bloke who cannot bear to parted from his mobile phone, the eastern european ladies who chatter incessantly about eastern european things, and the strange guy who always asks at the desk for assistance and cannot make himself understood. All missing. You know, this would be a pleasant session if I didn't have something to moan about. I have been advised by the Swindon Critics Society that my blog is dull - sorry about that, but rest assured there's a blockbuster finale to today's episode. Idiots What is it with the internet just of late? Why do web page designers believe that I want lots of pointless themes and features that really only convert handy internet sites into a jumbled mess. There's nothing worse than software that tells you what you want. Or idiots who create all that stuff for no other reason than to justify their pay packet. More About Idiots Talking about idiots, just of late there's been a crabby old biddy at the library who seems to think I'm interested in listening to her whinging on about what a poor excuse for a person she believes me to be. Heard it all before, dear, and I don't listen to those who speak to my back. The funny thing is she sometimes makes sarcastic comments about how good it is see me searching for work. The reason it's funny is that I've been using the library computers almost daily for the last five years to help me find work. Obviously too busy moaning about my military surplus trousers to notice. More About Whinging As it happens I had reason to moan myself the other day. A new neighbour has moved in and seeing her trying to cut back the jungle the previous residents cultivated in the front yard, I took the opportunity to advise her how little sound proofing there is between our houses. Like there isn't any. With her predecessors it was like living in Albert Square sometimes. Anyway despite my advice next doors radio could be clearly heard all around my flat. Right. That's it. This needs to be sorted. She came to the door and after listening to my complaint asserted that her radio wasn't loud at all, even though it could be heard blaring out behind her from the back of the house. Not exactly quiet, is it? Holy Grail Secret Of The Week By sheer coincidence I discovered last night that I'm very distantly related to Jesus Christ. The maternal side of my tribe is connected to all those stories circulating about Renne-Le-Chateau and the Priory of Sion. After more than a decade of trying to debunk such things it came as a bit of a shock to find out my family is part of it. Now, I have to say I'm not entirely convinced that this revelation is even close to being factual, or even believable, but those of you who swear blind that the 'Blood Royal' legend has real basis now have no choice but to defend me from strange homicidal monks, or if you really want to do me a favour, that crabby old biddy at the library.