So, yeah . . . 46 million eligabe to vote in the UK, of which 17.5 million said “leave the EU”. (Actually one third of the electorate).
So the rest either didn’t vote, or voted “stay”.
And the majority of the leave voters based their decision on pub talk, on the lies and filth pedalled by The Daily Mail, and chats with their mates in the van.
Not quite the informed and considered decision that was needed really.
Karina-Jones was due her post-op check-up this afternoon at the Vets. Perhaps prematurely I was congratulating myself on getting her easily into her jazzy ‘travel’ zip-up carrier. There it was now, safe on rear seat of the car – the occasional mews of sadness & mild complaint emitting.
Three hundred meters down the road I fancy I can hear a zip being slowly, experimentally pulled, and sure enough – a few seconds later, she appears in the rear-view mirror. Grinning.
OK – “Be calm” I tell myself “Just drive slowly, and if there’s any sign of her getting toward the front, then pull over and pop her back into the box” – Easy.
At the first set of lights I swivel round and gaze rearward – nothing. No cat. She’s obviously climbed over into the hatch area. This is good news.
We (as I presume it’s still ‘we’) get to the vets. I need to tell you here that parking at this Vets is very close to a main road.
If I just open the rear-hatch now, a jumpy cat would be about one tiny metre away from a very busy road. So I gingerly open one of the rear doors, kneel on the rear seat, close the door behind me and try to see Karina.
Nothing. That’s weird.
Now OK, there’s a lot of stuff in the back – not yet cleared out from a summer’s boating, beaching and god knows what I imagined we’d be doing all Summer from the amount of equipment I carry. There is however, no matter how many items I carefully move and peer under – decidedly no cat.
“Ok” I think “I’m at the wrong angle” – I get out of the back, carefully close the door, and walk around to the rear hatch and open it about 3 centimetres, kneel down and check no animal is squatting there – pre-pounce to freedom.
Nothing.
Open door wider, scrabble about under items of summer, behind screen-wash top-ups, behind stack-and-store boxes full of emergency tools never ever needed.
Nothing. “My god I’ve lost her!” Against all logic – I’m feverishly trying to think if there’s a way out from the back of the car – maybe underneath?
Just like checking the same place a million times when you’ve lost something you KNOW you’ve checked this place but you can’t help yourself.
OK, there’s nothing for it. I lock the car doors and walk into the vet’s reception.
“HI! Steve Evans, and Karina – except I haven’t got Karina.” The young girl gives me an old-fashioned look. I try and explain, I fail, and we re-schedule the appointment.
Back outside I’m in one of those ‘I can’t believe this’ moods. What a waste of time and effort – I’m never gonna use that stupid travel cat jobby-thingy again. I lean against the front wing of the car and stare at nothing.
A movement attracts my attention. There’s Karina, paws up against the rear window – she’s staring at me in a way that seems to ask “what shall we do together now Papa?”
I open the door, pick her up, pop her effortlessly into the carrier, zip it up (noticing en-route the Velcro zipper lock I’d completely failed to see the first time).
Now at this point it is maybe three minutes after I’d last been into reception, so I whiz back in – cat in bag, so pleased to have retrieved the situation.
A different girl is sat behind the desk, and she’s on the phone to someone who seems to prefer every phrase to be peppered with “you know” and “to be fair” before the conversation can progress.
Fifteen hours later she puts the phone down. I explain that I am no longer sans-cat. She peers at her computer monitor.
She presses a few keyboard keys, and looks up to gaze around reception for a few hours.
Apparently the ‘phone call was someone diving-in to take-up the cancelled appointment.
“Ah well thanks anyway.” Karina-Jones and I drive home.
Great to see some good football. Like millions of us, I never watch it unless it’s the World Cup. This “it’s coming home” is a bit of puzzler though isn’t it?
I mean, to start with – it’s obviously not ; not once our guys start to play some heavyweight talent, and (b) if it were coming home, then it would be going to Uruguay.
(The first World cup was the 1930 FIFA World Cup – held in Uruguay in July 1930).
Still, let’s not mince potatoes shall we?
Anyway – I went onto wikipoobia to do a bit of in-depth analysis, sorry, meaningless crap-chat – and discovered the terribly useful snippet below . . . .
Resigned? What? You, you mean like, resigning from Europe?
Re: Driving in the UK, congestion
Once a gorgeous part of Bournemouth – with houses sporting entrances like this (Private Hotels, mostly).
Seems this one now much better employed as a service cupboard?
Moving on . . . . . (a little further up Sea Road, Bournemouth)
Jason Streatham lives here – lovely shiney black machine there eh? Well suited to get you from one Country to another.
Jason’s gonna have to be careful though . . . . (car window glass – Argyll Road)
. . . . but if he keeps his Kitchen door open, maybe? (Argyll Road)
We use Office 365 at work – and the toolbar comes equipped with a little Bell thingy.
Said Bell thingy shows a ‘1’ or something or other – depending on whether or not something has occurred to demand your attention.
Here’s the toolbar
I got quite excited this afternoon –
because my toolbar had a ‘1’ on it!
Here’s the notification I received
As God is my witness – this system is now notifying people that they have no notifications.
The only thing I cannot understand about all this is – why the surprise?
Why is this considered “news”?
We’ve had months and months of pathetic “bulldog” style posturing by the UK, followed inevitably by climb-down after climb-down. In all cases UK Politics has got in the way of any real thought. Or anything the people of this country might use.
It was always going to be a disaster, and one day those folks who voted us out of Europe might see what they’ve done, and/or recognise the rubbish that was spun to them.
