New Location now up and stumbling here.

This is one of Farrago's parties that no one should miss. Be there.

Baker' Dozin' is going to become a pawn site. New premises. New program. Comments even.
The premises are cool. New server set up by Shelley Powers as a social experiment. The idea is for it to be run as a cooperative with as few restrictions as possible. It's in beta testing but she reckons it's idiot proof so I got invited to try it out. Still not absolutely sure how to take that but am chuffed to bits to be part of the project.
The blog runs under MT which I am very gingerly getting to grips with. I can't take any credit for the installation. I was simply told 'It's there. Use it.' Some folks you don't argue with. So I used what was set up and it worked. Comments as well, which could be a mixed blessing. I have even got a suitable domain name and that works too.
The tricky bit is going to be getting the look the way it is here. The set up uses all sorts of wonderful stuff like style sheets etc. but I rather like what I've got here. Well the colour certainly. So as soon as I have things looking even vaguely right I will give details here.
The pawn site? A Powers Anarchic Weblogging Network site. Just don't tell Shelley I said so. I wouldn't upset her for the world.

Let down by the weather? Well, not really. The South Africans just played an excellent game. They stitched us up like a kipper. Congratulations.

That's not cricket. The South Africans were starting to make us look pretty stupid but we English had a trick or two up our sleeve. We had 'borrowed' some of Farrago's rain prior to 23rd of July and forced the draw. Britannia rules the weather.

Unfriendly food and natives in Ireland. One huge drawback of eating the morning and evening meals provided on the trip was that I gained 6 pounds in 8 days.
We stopped in Avoca, Wicklow the village where they filmed the Ballykissangel series. A prettier village than many but it has suffered a little from the commercial pressures of tourism. In the pub I was approached by one of the locals who sat on the bench next to me. She was obviously in a friendly mood and as she nuzzled up I had to push her away forcibly. Unfortunately she had just been swimming in the river and needed a rub down. The size and shape of a Jack Russell with the coat and colour of an English Bull Mastiff. She smelt as only a wet dog can smell. Yoga probably knows what I mean. Luckily I dried out in the sun before we had to get back in the coach.

Sushi rocks. For years I have avoided even the thought of eating sushi. Raw fish? No way. I won't actually admit that I was wrong but henceforth I do expect to eat it now and again (and again and again).

Romance dead? No, it's just me.

The roses were as close as I could get to the 'right' colour. They may not grow that variety anymore. A sort of pastel yellowy orange. The small buds were slightly more elongated but overall they were pretty close to the originals. There was only one bunch, so to make up a Baker's Dozen 'Another dozen in red please.'

The champagne. Exact match. Mumm.

Chocs problem, couldn't find any in a nice tin. They weren't part of 1973 but I like chocolate and she likes tins. I finally settled on a small pre-iced cake and a tube of pink icing. Calligrapher, I am not but the result was much more personal than a card.

Picked her up at lunchtime. 'The roses are nice. It's hot. I fancy a cold beer. Let's save the champagne until the boys are in town.' Fortunately George at the off-licence had a six-pack of Fosters on ice. So the anniversary lunch was swigging beer and pigging out on cake.

Being married to me for 30 years deserves a Nobel Prize. I just hope that roses, champagne, chocs and her choice of restaurant don't disappoint. She is keen to try sushi. I will acquiesce providing I get most of the chocs.

It's only after returning to England's allegedly green and pleasant land that you realise how parched it is. We may complain about the rain but we can't have that much because the grass here has that slightly greyish yellow sheen that tells a different story. In Ireland they have forty shades of green even in high summer and they aren't kidding, I counted them. We were very lucky not to be caught in any rain at all. The only two showers were conveniently timed to coincide with dinner and drinking in a pub. So considerate.

I may be an Old Hippie but I somehow never did drugs in spite of living in the Belsize - Hampstead - Swiss Cottage Golden Triangle. Alcohol gave me my buzz. Still does. One day a mate of mine from Glasgow persuaded me that drinking beer was bad for my health and that I should stop immediately - go cold turkey - switch to Guinness. I spent a week attempting to retrain my admittedly jaded palate to accept the taste of Irish stout. I failed miserably. Nearly 40 years on I have discovered why. My training plan was fatally flawed and stood no chance of success. I wasn't drinking in Ireland. The flavour must lose something vital in the transportation. So if anyone wants to buy me a Guinness make sure it comes with a ticket across the sea to Ireland. Otherwise I'm not proud, I'll drink anything. And while I'm at it I will definitely drink to the health of Nelson Mandela. The word 'Great Man' is an understatement.

The trip to Ireland was more enjoyable than I anticipated. Ireland is the last stronghold of proper pubs, real country towns, genuinely helpful service and good grass. It can't last, the signs are already there. If the opportunity arises, I would strongly advise a visit ASAP.

Off to Ireland for a week by coach. Will be eating as much as possible, drinking in moderation (unless my wife isn't watching) and won't be posting or even commenting, unless I have mis-translated 'You are taking a computer over YOUR dead body'. When we got married 30 years ago on the 21st I didn't realise that 'till death us do part' would have such ramifications. If only I can find an internet shebeen.....

Yoga also decided to get back to the keyboard after suffering withdrawal symptoms. She made the point that making mental notes for future postings was a difficult habit to kick. I must admit that in the past seven months I seem to be thinking a little more about what is going on around me. I still have difficulty getting my thinking onto the screen but at least I'm thinking.

Wimbledon is over. Thank goodness. I enjoyed the tennis but everybody can go home now. I won't have to barge my way through the visitors when out walking and the airlines won't seek cheap TV publicity by overflying my house (and Centre Court). Concorde rocks but the airlines suck.

So you're a steward at Wimbledon, charged, along with many thers, to look after the safety of the masses on the roads and pavements. They even hang a megaphone round your neck to help in the task. Trouble is it's early, the traffic is light, only a moderate number of pedestrians, the weather has been a bit non-descript and you're still standing in the middle of the road.
Boring, boring. The boss isn't around. Better check the equipment, (very quietly).

'The sun has got his hat on.
Oh hip hip hip hooray.
The sun has got his hat on
and he's coming out to play.'

Not a single cheer or handclap from the 100 people who must have heard. Life can be so tough in showbiz.

Farrago's back to her old blog. That is so reassuring.

Some are more equal than others. You would think that queueing overnight on the pavement for the tennis would be a great leveller. Think again. Walking along the length of the queue after the camp is struck reveals the fact that the nearer the front of the queue the better the booze. In the gutter near the courts there are champagne corks, a few hundred yards away only plain corks are visible and after the quarter mile mark there are cans and beer bottles. The only common factor appears to be a poor level of civic responsibility.

Anyone for insults? It has occurred to me that the last two posts might be considered chauvinist, sexist, feminist, snobbish, inverted snobbery or just plain rude. To those sensitive souls I offer this post as my attempt at a hat-trick.
Wimbledon Park. Baby in buggy, the sort where the baby faces the person pushing. Mother talking to infant. On the grass is the crocodile of enthusiasts queuing for Wimbledon. They have about a mile to go. A small group are fooling around for their own and others' entertainment. A loud cheer goes up. Must have alarmed the baby. Mother's reassuring, soothing remark? 'It's all right. They're all mad. They're queuing for the tennis.'

Primitive Woman in Wimbledon. A walk in the park. Very smart casual. Quality baby buggy. Terribly well-behaved three year old boy. Golden haired sheep dog that would make Lassie look like a mongrel. Probably drives a top of the range people carrier.
So what is the ultimate accessory for this vision of 21st Century sophistication? It's a two and a half foot long purple plastic adaptation of the cave-man's spear stick or atlatl. The business end is shaped like a cupped hand and can pick up a ball without the need to bend down. Throwing the ball was equally effortless and there was the added benefit of not actually coming into direct contact with a dog-slobbered ball.
Isn't ancient science wonderful?

Primitive Man in Wimbledon. Horse Close wood is a couple of acres of ancient woodland at the northern end of Wimbledon Park. It was left au naturel when the park was designed by 'Capability' Brown a couple of hundred years ago in order to terminate the view from the great house near the top of the hill at the southern end of the park. The park's western perimeter is formed by Church Road on the other side of which lies The All England Lawn Tennis and Croquet Club. They hold a tennis tournament there every year which usually gets a lot of TV coverage so you might occasionally catch a glimpse of the wood from the cameras mounted on cherry-pickers. Between the wood and Church Road is a small carpark and at the edge of the carpark, in the mown grass area, are a pair of English Oaks about eight feet apart. They are about 4 feet in diameter so must date from the early years of the park if not before. One trunk is straight and true for the first 12 feet the other forks at about 9 feet.
The weather is glorious English summer at its' hottest and best even at 10 in the morning. Not many people about. The car is a typical Boy Racer's machine. Doors and sunroof open, parked in the shade of the oak trees, stereo pumping out 100+ decibels. The epitome of urban cool even with no girls around. One of the two, twenty-something, male occupants is repeatedly trying to climb the forked oak. Poor technique. The Alpha male is esconced in the fork, shouting the equivalent of 'I'm the king of the castle'.
The cream of Homo Sapiens youth hasn't progressed far from the school playground nor pre-Homo erectus. What worries me most is the fact that this older specimen can't suppress the instinctive urge to show that he is better than either of them. Maybe early one morning when no ones about.....

Farrago's Syndrome is spreading. Mid-morning, Monument Underground Station. Two take-away coffee containers untidily abandoned on a convenient flat tiled surface. One the standard Bartsucks brown the other a bright pink with a slogan on it. Eighteen inches away crouches a twenty-something Japanese tourist, multi-megabit high-quality-optical-lensed digital camera in hand. Beep. A highlight of the trip to London has been captured.
I would have stopped to ask for her URL but this is London. Don't feed the animals. Don't talk to the tourists. If anyone comes across the shot in a blog please let me know.

People like that should be locked up. Monday morning 9:00am. 70 degrees plus. Summer has finally arrived in London. Can of Strong Brew in hand, strolling along wearing enough clothes to survive an Arctic winter, topped off with red knitted hat. Probably sleeping rough, out of touch with family and reality, definitely endangering his health and likely to be a danger to civilised life in London. His crime? He is smiling and looks utterly contented with his lot .