Mr.William always uses his Loaf?

Dear and discerning Reader,

I hope you are not 'fracked' by austerity, in these times when we are all 'in it together' with PM Dave 'Camera-on' and his buds. Certainly, Ed 'Stop calling me Wallace & Gromit' Miliband had plenty to be 'fracked' off about, when the Mail disgustingly dissed his dear, dead dad. The phrase, "I wouldn't go there if I were you." was surely invented for moments like these. No wonder the 'Hacked Off' guys get so cheesed, Gromit?

Anyway, two questions, Reader. I get confused. Is 'fracking' a new swear word? For example, a ‘fracking’ fracas? It's just that I hear it used everywhere and peeps seem to get very heated when they say it. Maybe talking about it will keep us warm in an eco friendly way, without smashing the place up for shale gas? Secondly, how can we all be 'in it together', if Mr Cameron bakes his own bread, while most of us 'knead dough'? Case 'proven'?

Well, back at my ranch, I always use my 'loaf', metaphorically and literally. Ya gotta work smart and not waste your food or time. Vital resources are too precious to blow. Mind you, I had a slice of misfortune recently.  I was bemoaning the way food has become more artificial and synthetic, when I accidentally popped a ready meal into the oven in its plastic tray. Result? Molten magma mush! 

At least, my wines are all 'corkers'. Yes, no screw tops in my 'cellar'. I jest for the sake of a jolly jape. You should always remember that my poetic licence is fully up to date and I won't let the facts get in the way of a good story. Firstly, my 'cellar' is my kitchen shelf and, secondly, I can't wait for a cork job. It's a quick screw for me. Ooh, er? Also, I tend to squeeze the quality/price ratio: yep, whatever's cheap and isn't actually vinegar.

Any rate, Reader, I do try to 'make do and mend', sometimes too literally for my own good. I recently decided to darn my socks and needed pins and needles. I went to the 'pin' lady at the wool shop. She works for 'pin' money? Boom, boom! Well, I took them home and immediately lost sight of the sharp objects until I sat on them during a scary movie. It certainly made me jump. I nearly had another 'wikileak'.

When I did get round to the darn darning, I got pins and needles in my legs. Yes, both ways. I pricked myself silly and my legs zoned out of circulation as I hunched for hours like Rumpelstiltskin on speed. Ironically, he made straw into golden 'dough'.

 'Yes, pins are small and can be dangerous. They tell me they can bring down a lion. I 'roared' when I heard that. 

Hey, ho! That was that for the ol' DIY. Next time, for two pins, I would enlist a professional. So, when my trousers needed shortened to let me see my shoes, I engaged the 'pin' lady. Regrettably, being so ticklish when she measured my inside leg, (It's in your own minds!), she overdid it and I got a pair of rather fetching shorts back. I saw the funny side, as long as the general populous don't see my backside, if I ever sport them in public. Yes, I can laugh at myself, even though I'm a world famous GOG, grumpy ol' geezer, but I bashed my funny bone today and, trust me, I didn't laugh!

So, how am I generally? Thanks for asking. As I sit here in my 'sweltered' accommodation, (The 'warder' has stoked the furnace up to volcanic setting again.), I have been using my 'loaf' and realise some things about myself. Yep, sometimes my head hurts, especially when it is exasperated by my nostalgia/neuralgia. Both can be a real pain in the neck and elsewhere. I think nostalgia's not what it used to be. What? You wait till you're nearly 90 and you'll see that the only thing you're nostalgic for is the ability to remember what day it is and why you are standing in the corridor in your undercrackers with no recollection of preceding events.

Mind you, I now see that I am also like my old clock. Many miles on the dial, but still very regular and a good timekeeper. Also my ticker is sound, but my movement is dodgy, rusty and my clacker is clapped out. My doodah doesn't always swing, but then it gyrates wildly and peters out after 10 minutes. Yes, it's sort of my Dorian Gray 'picture in the attic'. If it ever ticks its last and goes to the knackers' yard, my matinee idol status will be revoked.

In the meantime, I will be like my parrot and be a 'trill' seeker. I talk to it all the time, sharing my plans and thoughts. For some reason, it wildly squawks, "Don't do it, Mr. Peeps!" Everyone's a critic? I just tell it to shut its beak and throw a duvet over the cage. I knew I should have got a tortoise. They don't talk back and I can outrun them. At least, with my hearing, I can't always hear the parrot. My son-in-law has taught it naughty words, so maybe it's a good thing I can tune them both out from time to time. Mind you, recently I was listening to the Prom concerts. The pianoforte can sound beautiful, but it's a pity if you only hear the forte and no piano.

My daughter took me to my doc, Ivor Nancer, about my hearing. I told him it was hampering my ability to 'tickle the ivories'. He gave me a quizzical, old-fashioned look, which made me think we were definitely not on the same aural wavelength. Which reminds me, my vicar is confusing me again. When he does his sermon, he has us all join in the page-turning Olympics to follow his references. It can be farcical with my hearing, as I regularly call out in a stage whisper, "Where the bally heck are we and could he hold his blinking horses?" Well, his talk was from the 'Sermon on the Mount', but he gave me such a withering look that I didn't like his 'beatitude'!

Anyway, I must go as I hear they have started a 'postcode' lottery. It might be cheaper than the National one, but I hear that you literally have to take your chances. Irony is not dead, just a little rusty? Also, I have to visit a young friend who's had twins. I remember one of their names is Sher, so I call them Sher and Sher-alike. Ha!

Au revoir, Reader, and live life to the full, 'cos unless you're being reincarnated as a mollusc or Simon Cowell or whatever, you only get one go. Make the most of it!

Yours short on dough, yet proving I can use my loaf,

The Blogging GOGFather

PS. When I write, I'm a 'dictator'. No, it's not my arthritis necessitating an amanuensis. It's just that I never lose control of the 'plot'.