Wobbly handle on the bucket

Wednesday – 20^th

I made myself a breakfast of bacon, egg and tomato and sat around doing nothing of any consequence or value until near lunchtime. My plane was to walk to the Cricketer’s, have lunch, a beer5 or two, and post the blogs of the past few days, using the pub’s WiFi.

Shortly after crossing on to Aldershot Road, I looked into a rain-sodden field where a few ponies schlepped around munching on the grass. They’d not have looked out of place if they had been wearing ‘wellies’ – or wearing the ‘coolie-hats’ of rice-pickers!

 

Yesterday’s walk had taken a toll on my calf muscles, so the ¾ mile trudge to the Cricketer’s was a little slower than I had imagined = and the last 200 yards was uphill. Nevertheless, I parked myself at a table by the window after ordering a pint of Foster’s lager and a Cottage Pie. After 5 minutes or more, I finally got connected to the WiFi, but the connection was as slow as cold molasses. It took more than 3 minutes to upload a single photo – and I had almost a dozen to upload! Groan!  There was little to do, but order another pint, take a ‘potty-break’ and continue. Bugger me! The damned WiFi connection had become ‘disconnected’ while I was in the loo! 

Pissed, (Pd-off, not Pd–drunk), I turned my laptop off, glanced several times at the woman sat nearby and rubbed my hand across the top of my head. I was wondering if I had horns growing up there, the way the old hag had been ogling me. I downed the rest of my Fosters, paid the bill (yes – they were able to get my credit card to ‘work’) and headed out for the walk back.

For those who think the pub is named for some insect of the area, no – ‘cricket’ is a popular sport that ‘Mad dogs and Englishmen who go out in the midday sun’, play when there is sufficient absence of rain.

  

As far as getting my blog stuff uploaded at the Cricketer’s – I had been ‘bowled over’, stumped, caught and run-out – all in the same trip to the wicket.

I arrived back at my brother’s house, leg-weary, computer-angered and gut-troubled. It was that Cottage Pie, I think. I had no ill-effects from Fosters on prior instances of imbibing it. I made sure I stood well away from the gas-stove when my brother lit it later to heat his food. Cottage Pie is worse than beans! 

To be continued . . .