Shiny Thing Make It All Better

Do not get your hopes up, O my droogies, for the proper annual revival of the Automatic Diary is still ten or so days away.  Think of this as an hors d'oeuvre, as long as you don't want capers in it.  I can't abide capers.  The first thing I do with a Veal Holstein is put the capers carefully to one side, that I might more easily sneer at them.  They don't take any notice, of course.  They're like Millwall supporters: "No-one likes us / We don't care".

So, on Sunday 10th August I attended the Focus 12 (aka "The Gulag") Annual Reunion and a Good Time was Had.  It was nice to see a Several of my fellow zeks in attendance, all of whom appeared to be rated A1 at Lloyds.  Not to mention most of the long-suffering and infinitely patient staff (enjoy your retirement, J!) and a horde of familiar faces from the recovery community in Bury St. Edmunds.  A resounding Hurrah! for the arrival of (very) young Dylan, who will doubtless be giving his parents E & O sleepless nights before too long.  And H, I trust you'll be fully restored to (very) Rude Health before too long.

Which leads me nicely to...  Six months prior to the date of first drafting this post (for, unusually, I haven't typed this straight into BlogThing), I went shopping.  Mostly for a few last-minute wossnames prior to spending three months in the wilds of East Anglia (readers may insert their own jokes here, if you don't mind).  And a half-bottle of Scotch.  It was only when the latter was run through the scanner at the checkout that I noticed it was actually a full-size bottle.  At which point a Rational Human Being might have said "Oh, that's the wrong size.  Might I swap it for the smaller version?"

No.  No, I didn't.

The following day was my fiftieth birthday.  I aten't had a drink since.  And here is my new Shiny Thing:

NEW shiny thing make everything all better, say clever science man yesterday

In an ironic postscript to the foregoing, I was not long returned from an NA meeting on the evening of 12th inst. when the doorbell rang.  On the doorstep was a young chap with a carrier bag.  With some difficulty, he managed to communicate to me the notion that I had ordered some weed for home delivery.

I hadn't.  Clearly the 87-point notice in the porch window reading "We do not buy goods or services at the door" does not stretch to recreational pharmaceuticals.  Nor does the small-print suffix: "Now fuck off...".  Not very serene, I know, but I am far from keen on being roused from my torpor to discuss changing my energy supplier, still less engaging with some itinerant substance-monger.  Relax, sonny, I haven't called the Babylon.  Well, not this time anyway.