A telephone is a very intimate way to communicate. And when you spend an hour with one clamped to your ear being talked through the various steps needed to get the house connected again to the wi-fi and internet you develop a strange relationship with the voice on the other end. I didn’t quite catch his name but in the one of the lulls that occurred as we waiting for something to reboot we established that he was in India where it was clear and hot and and I was in Birkenhead where it was grey, cold and windy. We were both looking forward to Christmas.
When at last the blue line moved and the BBC News homepage flickered up on the screen we could have hugged each other down the line.
Elsewhere I have been seduced again by the nice men in Probe. There are two things in a a record shop I find difficult to resist. The first is some good music playing in the background, good enough for me to ask what it is, and the second is a hand written label that someone has taken the trouble to write out telling me just how good a record is.
I knew I had at least one album by The Dirtbombs and a label that reads “Thee amazing sunshine pop/bubblegum rock album from Mick Collins and his Detroit legends” is a must have.
It was good to discover that I have at least one other album by the Dirtbombs and we have been listening to all three of them all day. Greased up scuzzed rock’n’soul with added bubblegum and fuzzed up guitars.
For lunch we had steak trenchers. Two good steaks fried quickly and laid on top of a couple of thick pieces of toasted bread with the juices and a few sliced onions.
And look at the sprouts we got!