Covid Vaccine?

I have finally been offered a Covid Jab by E-Mail as being over 75 years old.  But it’s all in French so God knows what it actually says, although there is no mention of Which Jab or Where.  These wouldn’t be a problem for me as Astra Zeneca is the same in English as is Vannes or any other large Town around here.

My first thought was O’Connor Eccles Lang.  What could go wrong with that?  Unless they notice that something isn’t quite right when he turns up.  But then he isn’t half daft either.  He might be a rotten, little pisser but he knows what a tin of dog food looks like even before I open the cupboard door.  And he knows what a syringe with a needle is as well.  And he definitely doesn’t like those.  I would be hard pushed to get him vaccinated against Rabies  should I ever need to, which I probably won’t.  No Rabies around here and The Bats all look harmless, at least I hope they are.  Not that I see a lot of them as I rarely go out at night to take a look at the nearest street light these days where they tend to congregate when looking for mosquitoes, for which I remain forever grateful.  I don’t do well with mosquito bites.  But I haven’t had one of those for years.  This leads me to suspect that The Bat Colonies have increased.  Jolly good show I say.  Anyway, I shall worry about Rabies if I ever have to.  And No, I have never been tempted to Eat A Bat.

And another thing of course.  This could be an E-Mail Scam so I’m not clicking on The Link anyway.  How can you tell these days?  My E-Mail Address is plastered all over The Internet, thanks to some arsehole who thought he could embarrass me when I didn’t agree with his demented ideas.  I don’t do embarrassment which he failed to realise.

So that’s me and O’Connor safe from The Vaccine, at least for now.

More Kindling.

Now it is the turn of The Hortensia. Hydrangea for the uneducated. I planted all of mine from cuttings when I thought it was possible to control these things. Wrong. The more you hack them back the higher they grow. Robin Dominic has just cut them all down to about twelve inches, again They’ll all be back up to the top of a six foot wall by the year after next.

Unfortunately this year it has exposed the utter devastation of O’Connor’s attempts to conquer New Zealand when he thought we couldn’t see what he was up to, which we couldn’t. What an horrible mess. Rotten Little Shit.

However there are now huge piles of already half dead, six foot long pieces and since it will take no longer to cut them into stove sized bits than it would to put them in the Trailer and take them to The Tip, we might as well get on with it to some sort of financial benefit. Pennies and Pounds come to mind. Ever my guiding principle. I have survived for many a long year on that premise.

The Never Pluming Plum Tree is again in great bloom and yet again I live in hope. It had better watch it’s socks because that will be for the chop next year if it doesn’t. Unfortunately my Robin Bird has taken to sitting at the top of this wretched Tree and trills away beautifully as he waits for me to feed his now quite fat face, so I might have to rethink that one. “No Robin, you can’t cut that one down. You don’t really want to disaccommodate your Spiritual Brother, do you. Rhetorical Question. Robin’s reply will not be fit to publish.

Meanwhile, Lann Georges travels on unaffected by time. How very lucky I was to shipwreck up here.