Head Rambles

Grandad November 27th, 2006

I don’t know if any of you are following this saga, but there has been an interesting development.

The company rang me [and I'm still not going to say who they are. Yet....].

The engineer was extremely nice to me. He was nearly in tears at the upset they have caused me.

I cannot, for the life of me fathom what brought about this change of heart.
Maybe they read my blog and feel sorry for me? I doubt it.
Maybe it was the letter I sent threatening legal action and massive media coverage? Could be.
Maybe it was my daughters boyfriend and his “friends” rolling up to their head office on the motorbikes, smashing all the windows and daubing “Save Grandad” all over the walls? Another possibility.
Divine intervention [see this morning's blog]? God knows.

Anyway…..

They are apparently calling out on Wednesday. They are going to send “their” engineers [as distinct from fellas who haven't a clue?] who, I am promised, will speak fluent English. They are going to sort me out if it kills them. Or maybe they are going to sort me out and kill me. One or the other. They are going to be in constant touch with the Head Office Engineer [Hey!! Maybe they are sending Jack Bauer????].

They are going to try everything to get me a decent signal to my existing mast. If they can’t do that, they’ll try a different mast.

The fella who rang me actually got quite excited. He thinks I’m going to be OK. Not only that but they are going to try to give me faster speeds than I had before.

So tune in on Wednesday, but I’ll be late blogging as they are coming first thing in the morning. It looks like they are going to make a day of it, so I am laying in plenty of beer and sandwiches. [For me, you fool. Not them.]

No. Scrap the last paragraph. Tune in tomorrow. I might have something interesting to say for a change.

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Grandad November 27th, 2006

I had a dream last night. I think it was a dream. Maybe it really happened.

I died and went up to the Pearly Gates.

“Howya Grandad” said Peter.

“Howya Pete” says I.

“Now what makes you think you are entitled to come in here?”

“I don’t know. I’m a nice bloke and can be the life and soul [if you'll pardon the expression] of a party?”

“We need more than that” says he. “Have you done any good works?”

“Like what?”

“Have you donated your entire income to the Third World?”

“No”

“Have you laid down your life to save another?”

“No”

“Have you contributed anything to life to make the world a better place?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Aw come on” says he, “you must have done something good?”

“Listen” says I, “I am, or rather was, just an ordinary bloke. I lived my life. I kept my head down. I’m a nonentity in the grand scheme of things. I’m just an ordinary Joe Soap.”

Just then he cocked his head to one side, and I realised he had one of those earpiece thingies.

“Himself wants to know if you are the bloke behind HeadRambles?” says Pete.

“Yeah. Sorry about that. I suppose that means the Big Trip Downstairs for me?”

“No” says Pete. “Himself is a great fan. He reads it every day. He says your campaign against the Devil is remarkable. He says you’re in!”

“Great” says I, “but I never wrote about the Devil.”

“You were always on about him. Himself upstairs loved it. He nearly granted you another hundred years of life so He could go on reading it.”

“But I never wrote about the Devil” I repeated.

“Yes you did” says Pete, “but you always referred to him as ‘George W’”

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