Kirrin Island UDI

Living on an island is a most bizarre – but strongly recommended – experience. From attempted killings to adultery, it’s a bit like Midsummer Murders meets Wife Swap but with less diversity. The upsides are to be celebrated. A view from my bed of the ancient and regal River Thames, the draw of community and the tranquility of no traffic. As I cross the rickety foot bridge (more later) I enter a territory that we collectively call home in a way that other neighbourhoods are unable to achieve. All of these reasons and more are why I could live here for many years to come.

There are downsides of course; I’d be kidding if there weren’t. Primarily the attempted murders which seem to stem from historic animosity between feuding families. I exaggerate of course – this seems limited to someone scattering tacks on the road so that the only islander allowed to drive his vehicle on the island would crash off the bridge and into the icy Thames. It was a good plot for Morse who would have drunk a bottle of claret before dispatching the Community Support Officers to investigate – and that’s what happened. We’ve now got a sign on the bridge that says Welcome to Kirrin Island – attempted murders in the last six months, zero. Please drive carefully – you know who you are.

For us lesser pedestrian mortals, I continue to cycle on and off the island and we leave a car on the mainland for reasons of living in the 21st century. Today I shall be mostly ogling the fit rowers and enticing them over with offers of cake. It’s a hard life.

Mr Stig of the Waste Transfer Centre


I’ve just come back from a visit to my local Waste Transfer Centre. That’s right – you heard correctly. No dumping or tipping of any sort was done. Just calm responsible transference of all my crap onto a pile of other people’s transferred crap.

I think I do them a disservice as they report – on the way in – that 78.5% of “transferred” stuff is recycled. I was very impressed. It made me want to diss-assemble the old Ikea wardrobe I was throwing away, into its component parts, stick it back in a piece of cardboard – of which there was loads lying around. Draw a few stickmen having sex on the front to approximate an Ikea instruction manual and then give it a daft Scandinavian name. A student from somewhere would have taken it away. But I didn’t. I dumped my stuff and drove off quick before they discovered I lived in the wrong Borough.

Blagging your way to the Royal Suite.

I stayed in a 5* hotel last night and got upgraded to a superior room as a bonus. Ok it was a last “secret hotel” thingy deal for relatively sensible money. But it was still a five star hotel in the heart of London and actually it was never a secret because I’d worked out which it was from some crude googling. 5 star overlooking St Paul’s Cathedral narrows the field a little. Having complained that the Bluetooth signal on my bedroom “multimedia hub” was weaker than Chris Huhne’s forthcoming defence, I was upgraded to a superior room. This morning having hacked the lift and finding myself on the executive roof garden (from where the picture is take), I kicked myself for not finding three or four consecutive things to complain about last night as I could have woken up in the Royal Suite, in a bed the size of the Greek debt but without the downside of interference from Germans.


Strewth I’ve got a blog!

What did I do that for?

Well actually because I realised that a social media profile needs a strategy – you can’t just throw a few tweets about and hope for the best. Now it might be my over excessive controlling manner and actually you can do exactly that. But I’ve realised that a combination of forum posting and tweeting also requires somewhere to post longer thoughts and develop your voice – hence this blog.

And the other thing you realise is – and maybe it’s just me but I doubt it – when I create a tweet (only 140 chars) I spend an inordinate amount of time worrying about whether it meets the needs of my followers – people I’ve not asked to take an interest but whom nonetheless have put themselves out to do so. They deserve a reasonable amount of quality. Or they’ll unfollow me or defollow me whatever the correct term is, and that would make me feel I’ve failed. But blogs are different. I’ve not asked you to come here. I’ve got no idea who the heck you are. But welcome. Thanks for coming by. I hope you’ll stay a bit. Come back even. Perhaps leave a nice message. But if you don’t, neither of us have to worry. There was no commitment. We haven’t got that awkward morning after moment. Just grab your clothes and head off before breakfast. We can pretend it didn’t happen. And that’s why I’ve decided I like blogging. I hope that makes sense. And if it doesn’t I don’t really care because I don’t feel responsible for you being here. See you soon I hope 🙂