I'm a Pilot, Simulate Me!

I, like many others when I bought my first PC, made the excuse that it was for educational reasons. I also knew that that I was talking out of my bum because I wanted it for games......pure and simple.

I like my games: Half-Life, Age of Empires, all the strategy and tactical ones with, preferably, the ability to blast somebody or something to Hell and back. They've changed a lot since those first offerings back in the early 80s but there is one particular genre which has caused me more frustration than a blind monk with a porn magazine.

I've always enjoyed anything to do with aircraft and, when the first flight simulators came out, I eagerly purchased the Microsoft flight sim. It was primitive, with jaggy graphics, 2 colour scenery and little choice of aircraft but I was totally entranced. The only problem was that I was total crap! My dreams of flying round the world were shattered by my singular inability to co-ordinate the various actions needed to become a pilot. Biggles need not have worried: I was the equivalent of of a particularly hyperactive bull in a china shop.

Every so often I have flirted once more with various simulations. They fulfil a need to learn as well as demonstrate some skills. I toyed briefly with Train Simulator on the basis that it was 2, rather than 3, dimensions but found the excitement of travelling along rails and stopping every now again left something to be desired. I got very into a submarine simulator (Silent Hunter 3) and became pretty good at sailing out of port, zooming off to the Atlantic, maintaining my sub and watching the empty seas. The only problem was when I spotted the enemy!

Calculating attack angles, navigating to the correct position and remembering the 101 things to think about was all a bit of a nightmare. The number of times I fired off tubes 1 to 4 in a very pretty fan formation, only to watch a juicy convoy full of tankers sailing serenely into the distance as I missed totally. Ho hum, another 3 weeks waiting for another one! If, by a combination of luck and ...........well, more luck actually, I hit something, I was immediately besieged by ace destroyer captains and basically, not having the patience to sit there and play Hide and Seek, would crank up to flank speed and hightail it. Did I succeed? Well, let's just say I am now fluent in 'Abide With Me' in German.

3 or 4 years ago, Microsoft Flight Simulator had become a far more sophisticated and I had another go. The scenery had improved, you could fly anything you wanted and I had managed to sublimate my previous ineptitude. This new confidence, naturally, didn't last for long. Initially, I took a flight around the Great Pyramid in a small 2 seater and managed to crash into it! I thought I would be flash and fly under the Golden Gate bridge - it almost worked! I took on an enemy plane whilst flying an F16 jet fighter: by the time I had worked out what I was doing I was about 200 miles past my target and, gazing at the several hundred instruments didn't help me. I just had time to wonder why the ground was blue and the sky green before my (inverted) aircraft plunged into the ground.

Well, it's happened again. I saw this guy yesterday who had not only the latest super whizzy version of Flight Simulator but also a ship simulator. I checked it out and decided that steering the Isle of Wight ferry wasn't for me but the new Flight Sim was amazing. The graphics are based on real photos from the NASA space shuttle and are extremely realistic. You can fly anything from a microlight to a Jumbo jet and I have a very nice joystick. Right, time to download the demo.

I started off in a microlight in flight. A gentle exercise where you learned to manouvre the aircraft and had to drop flower bombs on targets in the sea. Needless to say, I missed by miles and my record at actually remaining in flight before plunging into the briny stands, I think, at 57 seconds. There was also a facility to land on a convenient aircraft carrier to replenish your flour bombs. I'd lost sight of that within the first 10 seconds!

OK, perhaps, I just go on a gentle flight and get used to it all. I sat there on the runway in Hawaii in my powered microlight thinking to myself what a piece of cake this was going to be. Simple controls of throttle, brakes, rudders and push the joystick back or forwards to go up or down. 2 hours later I had charged up that runway about 200 times without leaving the ground. I'd whack up to full throttle and hurtle up the runway before frantically cutting the power and jamming on the brakes as I saw the end coming (in more ways than one). I'd then gently turn round and charge up the other way to repeat the whole procedure. Unfortunately, other aircraft would suddenly taxi into view and turn onto the main strip prior to their takeoff slot and I would have to do some nifty swerving to prevent a rather nasty and embarrassing accident. In fact, my slalom technique has now improved considerably.

I'm sure if there had been a radio in that bloody overgrown kite, I would have received a few choice words from Air Traffic Control but one thing was irrefutable,I was irrevocably attached to terra firma. I Googled the keyboard controls to see if I was missing something and found there are 5 pages worth! OK, not just for my microlight but it gave me a clue just what I had taken on. I struggled on and, after taking Mrs B's advice (much as I hate to admit it) succeeded in getting my wheels off the ground. At last! I hit the pause button and triumphantly rushed into the other room to tell her. When I returned to continue my gentle circumnavigation of Maui, I was met with the message:

Your trial period has expired. Thank you for using Microsoft Flight Simulator

Oh, terrific!

The software is now firmly on my birthday list and I have cast covetous glances at the USB control yoke, throttle unit and foot pedals which you can buy to go with it all. I know I shall never understand it all and, until I can clone a polydactylic octopus, the intricacies of the different controls will always be beyond me. There is a facilty to load scenery disks of, for example, South East England which has actual seamless imagery down to objects 14 feet apart so, if I ever get that far, I can come and quite literally see the cars which were parked in my road at whatever point the photos were taken.

Beware people, I could come crashing through your door at any time. If you see a Boeing 777 meandering erratically towards you, let your last words before a fiery demise be "Hello Bertie, nice of you to drop in".

Ah, Sweet Memories

As one grows from childhood to manhood some things get bigger whilst others reduce in size. Whilst certain growths gave me pleasure when this happened (the girl's school down the road springs to mind) other, less exciting, things shrunk e.g. adults, trains, lorries etc.

A strange start, you may think, but I was reminded of this the other day when I had a hankering for a Topic bar. When I was a callow youth and Topic represented the acme of chocolate-y ecstacy, a bar would last for ages yet, as I toddled into my local confectionery emporium to satisfy my craving, I was astonished by how small they have become. Is it a size thing visually or have the manufacturers craftily reduced the size? And another thing.....7 shillings for one measly chocolate bar ? I ask you!!

I've had a love affair with sweeties all my life and they are like milestones in the great journey of my existence. The joys of finding a KitKat made completely of chocolate, the disappointment of the failure of the Cadbury Aztec bar, the expectation of an unopened Jamboree Bag, the vicarious pleasure of probing a Creme Egg with one's tongue: ah, sweet joys. Spangles, Palm Toffee bars, sweet tobacco.....whatever happened to them?

I remember the joy of going into the local sweetshop armed with a bright 6d and watching the shopkeeper's face fall as I asked for aniseed balls. He used to sell them at 16 for a penny and, even though didn't really like them, it was worth it just to see him sighing as he counted out 96 into the white paper bag.

Just recently, I've found a wonderful web site called www.chocolatebuttons.co.uk that not only has oodles of wonderful sweets but at a reasonable price. I took the plunge and ordered a 3 kg bag of gobstoppers £11.50) which arrived 48 hours later. After counting them and sorting them into colours (Anal? Moi?), they fitted beautifully into a large biscuit tin which was accordingly dipped into at frequent intervals. Suffice to say, we're on the second consignment now and I've manfully resisted the temptation to buy such delights as Aniseed Twist, Rhubarb and Custard and Vimto Bonbons.

Now, before you all, in recognition of your love and admiration for yours truly, dash down to your local ParcelForce to send me vast amounts of sweets, can I just say one thing: NO liquorice allsorts! As you may have gathered from my alter ego, they were a great favourite of mine and I use the past tense wisely. When they were younger, the baby Bassetts always bought me liquorice allsorts for birthdays, Christmas, Father's Day,Easter, the anniversary of the Siege of Mafeking etc, etc. It got to the point where the inability to resist eating them and the bilious feeling after I had, bisected and, from that point, was born the hatred. I suppose it was a form of unintentional aversion therapy.

It's not even the same in the shops these days. No more serried ranks of sweet jars displaying their colourful contents: it's all Pick & Mix these days. Synthetic foam rubbish (and God alone knows whose mucky little hands have been groping in the bins!!). Talking of such things, young Master Bassett used to work in Brighton Woolies and he was there one day when the security guard had to eject a lady for..........wait for it...........weeing in the Pick & Mix! I kid you not.

Obviously, she was 2 bob short of a tenner but you have to admire her athleticism!

Remember Callard & Bowser Dessert Nougat? Each chunk wrapped in an undergarment of rice paper and then the opulence of a silver wrapping: all encased in a beautiful light blue box. Treats such as that were few and far between, being way beyond my pocket but the other time for sweetie heaven was Christmas. Not only the obligatory selection box but also there were sweets in the house! Mum was not the sort who would normally waste money on sweets: I always bought my own. At Christmas however, there was always a bowlful there and I was allowed to help myself as well as occasionally nick one from the adults-only boxes. Mum always had Weekend and Dad liked Newberry Fruits which were great because you could nibble off all the jelly and be left with a fruity liquid centre retained in a sugary case.

Oh how suave and sophisticated I felt as I ate the surreptitiously pocketed chocolate liquers and sat on my bed waiting for the (at that time, unknown) feeling of drunkenness. Oh how disappointed (and slightly sick) I felt when I realised I was doomed to disappointment.

And that's another thing! When did they stop putting a walnut inside a Walnut Whip? I was aghast when I discovered what, to me, is yet another example of what made Britain a third world nation. Even the survivors are different; Fruit Salads, pink shrimps, flying saucers, sherbert fountains......pah! A pale imitation of the real thing. And why is it that I always end up with the bloody creams in a half-empty chocolate box? I spit on you, orange cream (unless I'm desperate, of course).

Oh God, the Bassett is ranting but, before I stop, let me just say one more thing: Love Hearts. Whatever happened to such messages as 'Be Mine' and 'Cupid? Even they've changed to such romantic messages as 'Txt Me Plse' and 'FaceBook Me'. No doubt there are some that say such loving things as 'Buy me a can of cider and I'm up for it' or 'Probe my Privates'. Grrrrrrrrrr.

Oh sweeties, how do I love thee. let me count the ways. Better still, I'm off to make another order at that web site!

May the Great God Haribo go with you.

Thoughts from Bassett Towers

The other day I was informed my humour was "observational". Whilst any compliment is gratefully accepted, my first reaction to that is surely all humour derives from situations and that, perhaps, real humour stems from taking a particular circumstance and exaggerating it until it becomes a caricature of itself.

Having got that off my chest, there has been precious little to amuse me lately. There seem few people who haven't succumbed to the various sickness and flu bugs around at the moment and it seems that 2008 is currently the Year of the Ailment. I personally put this down to a combination of global warming and lack of E numbers in today's food. Just think about those good old days where lard was politically correct, smoking made you look big and every second TV programme wasn't about healthy eating. Not only did I feel fitter but I felt younger too - proof positive!

Anyway, a few recent observations:

There has been anarchy in the Bassett household as Mrs B has taken a firm stand against Charmin loo roll. Personally, I find those little bears etched lovingly into the soft 2 ply fibres rather sweet but she has baulked at her nether regions being that close to them. We have reached an impasse and are presently debating the purchase of 'his 'n hers' loo roll holders or taking it to the European Court. Watch this space for the outcome of this thrilling tale.

My televisual enjoyment has been impaired by the new Big Brother: if they are the stars of tomorrow then God help us all. The so-called celebrities hosting the programme are predominantly second-rate nonentities and I would far rather see interesting people like The Pope, Charles Manson and Kim Jong-il controlling the House. I am also waiting in fear and dread, for tomorrow sees the demise of Vera Duckworth! OK, Jack still has his pigeons but Corrie just won't be the same and it's going to be a sad day. In my darker moments, I still mourn the passing of Minnie Caldwell so I'm a bit worried about how I'll cope.

I watched a TV ad about conserving energy today. Now, that seems to be a bit weird using electricity to ask us to save it so I turned my thoughts to alternatives. My solution is simple; take the monies spent on TV energy-saving adverts and channel these into saving an endangered species instead - let's say pandas. When there is a proliferation of pandas, you put (recycled) tee shirts on them, bearing a suitable "Save Energy" slogan and release them into all the major cities of the world. People will see them and react accordingly thus not only putting across the message but helping animal conservation on the way. Simple.

iPods are all very well but yesterday, as I sat outside a bijou café, watching The Simpsons as I waited for Mrs B to emerge from the nail salon. I was conscious of the waitress asking me "What's happened?" My first thought was that she was asking how I had managed to drink two thirds of a rather insipid cappucino without re-entering her emporium and wrecking their coffee machine accompanied by cries of "Call that coffee, you swindling bastards?" and my second thought was that she wanted me to give her a resumé of the particular Simpsons episode I was watching. As I followed her glance, I saw an old geyser lying in the road, surrounded by various people, police and assorted rubberneckers. My preoccupation with the optimistic but doomed exploits of Homer (another alter ego?) had led me to completely miss the drama which had unfolded not 10 yards away. Fortunately, the guy seemed OK but had I missed an attempted mugging? A hit and run? Perhaps even an overdose of Phyllosan? ............I'll never know.

We all know the old adage about bread always falling butter side down. Why can I not break an egg into a frying pan without the yolk exploding? I try breaking it into a ramekin first, I try prayer but I just can't do it. If I have to break eggs into a bowl prior to whisking, their yolk remains steadfastly intact even if I deliberately try to totally decimate it. Weird.

Finally, something I wrote the other day:

LOCKDOWN

Prisons of the Mind

Constraining thought and deed.

Poisoning ambition

And stultifying need.

Cell bars borne of circumstance

Barriers set in stone

I build those bleak hard walls

And sit within, alone

The sentence I impose

Is set without parole

Condemning self, a life-long stretch

Imprisonment of Soul

What makes me pass this sentence?

Desire or fate or more?

Perhaps I’m just too scared to leave?

What IS beyond that door?

We all create our prisons

Though some can find the key.

I walk a path ‘twixt

Open Plan and High Security.

One day, I’ll find my freedom

And soar into the sky.

A bird released, a soul at peace

One day……before I die.

I’ll cleave those walls asunder

Leave fear and doubt behind

The battle ceased as I’m released

From that prison of my mind

Copyright GH January 2008

Dedicated Follower of Fashion

For a long time now I've been wanting to write a blog about style. I was going to say fashion but there seems to be a world of difference between them these days.

I was fortunate insofar as I became style conscious at the same time as style/fashion really took off in the early '60s. Whilst the first few years were still me being clad in cardies and school uniform (albeit with suede shoes! - woohoo), I finally reached an age when my paper round money and the proceeds of several illicit deals (involving nicking the Corona bottles from the back of the local shop and taking them back round again for the 3ds) enabled me to invest in some decent clothes.

My dear brother (the one who couldn't be bothered to come to his Father's funeral Paul, if you're reading this, you are a selfish twat) gave me a cast-off suit when I was about 15. It was ice blue and I well remember trucking along the road wearing that, a wine satin shirt and white silk kipper tie. Obviously, at that time, there was very little fashion outside the big cities and I used to stroll up the road feeling sooooo cool. Thank God, National Security ordered all remaining photos destroyed.

At 16, I went up to the Foreign Office and my mother duly took me to Hepworths to have a suit made. We discussed trouser leg width among other things and then I asked the bloke if I could have the trousers flared? He willingly agreed but failed to adjust the leg width accordingly and took the width of the flair as the original trouser width. I realised this when I took delivery and stood there proudly in a double breasted pinstripe suit with trousers reminiscent of Max Wall. They were skin-tight!

In those days, jeans really were still work wear and my first pair took about 3 years until they were soft and faded. I recall my buddy Dave and I were some of the first in Brighton to get into military surplus and used to wander round all Summer in massive great Royal Navy Bridge coats.

I digress. Up until I retired, I spent much of my life in suits and went to the opposite extreme after. Teeshirts and jeans were the order of the day although I've come to enjoy wearing nice clothes again, and am currently into cashmere sweaters. My clothes tend to be samey these days: fitted jacket, jeans and tee shirt in the summer and long, black leather coat and hat during the winter. The Matrix look seems to be popular as I know of 2 other people who have adopted it to some degree and I like the fact that it identifies me.

Anyway, today we went to Eastbourne. Now, Eastbourne is hardly the sartorial centre of the Universe; it was quite busy as, at this time of the year, the Council go along the seafront checking to see how many oldies in their deck chairs survived the winter. There were lorry loads of cold, stiff bodies everywhere. What struck me though, was the total lack of style worn by the younger element.

Sure, their clothes were individual but there was no panache, no pazazz. Oh dear, I think I'm getting old.

Dyed black hair, little white skirts, dark tights and gold/silver shoes are hardly the height of sophistication and surely, that is what sets stylish clothes apart. The emo/Goth thing might be a fashion insofar as it's popular but fashion without style is just not a feasible concept.

Looking back at some of the fashions I wore is quite cringe-making but, at the time, they were valid and representative of an era. Perhaps the drab, rather common clothes of today churned out by the likes of Primark are also representative? I do hope not. Maybe the difference now is that so many shops provide clothing for young people that it's a bit like movies insofar as the product is there in its completeness and requires no further effort of imagination. You can walk into a shop and emerge looking "fashionable" whereas, once upon a time, those shops were few and far between and therefore one used one's own creativity rather than rely upon the ideas of a design team. Even Eastbourne has at least 2 shops catering specifically for the Goth look. It hardly encourages independence and ingenuity.

Brighton is different. It has 2 universities and several colleges. Sitting in North Laine, people watching, one sees a veritable cornucopia of individual styles. Students, confident in their own right, expressing themselves through their clothes and their character. It's quite reminiscent of Carnaby Street in the 60s: everybody different, unafraid of the Establishment and enjoying their independence.

I'm not sure what I'd wear now if I was young once more? I'd like to think I would be different, I'd like to think I might turn a few heads. The difference is now, few things are head-turning these days as there are no longer any rules. Perhaps, I'd like to be emulated which, going back to the current hat/coat situation, is happening so that's rather good.

The other difference these days. of course, is that style/fashion is not limited to the young generation whereas, in my youth, people of my age now were wearing their suits and cavalry twill trousers.

Are there any new fashions now or just recycled combinations of what has gone before? My own feeling, if that's true, is .... great! It puts the accent on style rather than fashion and I hope that the political dumbing down of everything these days serves only to fuel that individuality. Fashion is a dichotomy. People seem to adopt a common look in order to express their own identity. Doesn't add up somehow.

By all means, wear what you want but also adapt it, customise it and be true to your own personality.

Ooh, I'm starting to get cross now. It's like music; Of course there were the commercial bands like Hermans Hermits, Slade, Bucks Fizz and the like but there were also Bowie, Floyd, the Who. the Pistols and a hundred other innovators. What is there these day? Manufactured bands and singers, second rate entertainment which feeds an immediate need rather than lays down seeds for a future.

I wonder if, one day, my children hang onto these ramblings and can say Dad was wrong. If you can, kids, then put it down to old age. If I'm right...........I told you so!

You Can be My Hero

The word 'hero' is defined thus:

A person of distinguished courage or ability, admired for his brave deeds and noble qualities

Now, I might be in a minority, but I think hero is one of the most over-used words in the English language. Open most newspapers and the word is used several times to describe all sorts of people ranging from someone who wades into a river to rescue an injured swan to the "have a go hero" who (in my opinion, stupidly) hangs on to their belongings when they get mugged. Courageous, maybe; even brave, but I think one type of real hero is someone who doesn't perform an act of spontaneous reaction but tolerates an intolerable situation (usually without a soul knowing about it).

Soldiers injured or killed in combat are hailed as heroes. They aren't heroes, unless sacrificing themselves to save others, but professionals reacting to a job for which they have been trained. My son has just been accepted into the Police and my initial pleasure at him realising a life's ambition is now tempered with the realisation that he will, at several points in his career, be in real danger. Perhaps he will be hailed as a hero but I know that he would be the first to acknowledge that he will merely be performing his role.

I know several people who, due to their own particular circumstances, have an existence full of unhappiness and frustration. They have responsibilities, they have dependants who rely upon them, they have lives they want to lead but, most important of all, they have a determination to get through.... to carry on. Sure, there are times when you want to give up: times when you just don't want to carry on. But you do. No whingeing, no dramatics, no revelling in the despair. That is a special type of courage and personal heroism.

The parent, son or daughter who tirelessly devotes their life to a disabled relative is a hero. They do it out of love and at a not inconsiderable cost to themselves. In the same way that the courageous soldier sacrifices his life, they also do the same albeit in an unsung way.

Coping with a terminal illness, displaying dignity in the face of adversity, working quietly for what we believe in. A lot of people have a bit of unsung hero in them, I guess

I'm not really putting this very well. I suppose I just wanted to say that heroism isn't necessarily a defined act; it's sometimes a state of being where, perhaps, people find an inner strength and courage to fight for what is the "right" thing to do. Often, it's only after an event that people realise that they have had that courage.

Maybe we ought to ban the word or, at the very least, redefine it. The trouble is, heroism is a very personal thing and its definition varies from person to person. Be somebody's hero.......but start off by being your own.

Dr, Noooooooooo!!

Yes, I know it's been a while but I've not been a well boy!

Whilst the rest of you were exacting revenge on the turkey population and practising the sincere thank you's to various aunties for the lovely socks, scented drawer-liners etc, I was doing a very good impression of John Hurt just before the Alien burst forth from his body. Suffice to say, I spent a wonderful 36 hours in hospital being occasionally poked, prodded but generally ignored.

Now, this hospital lark is all very well: nice comfy bed, lots of hot drinks, TV, solicitous nurses and, for some reason, what appear to be lots of grey cardboard hats lying around. Nice, that is, unless you're me!

• Bed like a lump of concrete and a sheet which had a mind of its own
• Nil by mouth, just in case they had to operate, resulting in strangely erotic dreams involving tea bags and chimpanzees. I did have a drip for a while but then I had the temerity to move and it came out and was never replaced.
• The TV was cleverly designed to move to every angle apart from a comfortable viewing one and then kept sending messages every 5 minutes saying words along the lines of 'We are sorry to interrupt this total bollocks which passes for Christmas viewing but would like you to give us several more credit cards in order that this audio-visual experience (as well as our astronomical profits) can be enhanced'.
• The nurses seemed to spend most of their time scoffing chocolates whilst occasionally shoving something in my ear. I assume it was a thermometer although it looked suspiciously like an electric toothbrush with a piping nozzle sellotaped to it.

I was reliably informed I had all the symptoms of a classic gall bladder baddie and an ultrasound would soon confirm this. When I eventually had the ultrasound I was told that my gall bladder was a shining example to all gall bladders everywhere. Were there a Gall Bladder of the Year contest, I would be a dead cert for the regional finals, if not the National Championship - typical!
Mind you, the Royal Sussex County Hospital is a large place and by the time I had been wheeled through innumerable corridors, 5 lifts and a short trip over a road (clad only in my rather fetching PJ shorts and tee shirt), hypothermia was my main concern.

Anyway, I was told I could go home and an endoscopy would be arranged in due course.

By sheer coincidence, I has a follow-up appointment today with the same consultant regarding some previous abscess problems on my lower spine (how delicately put). OK, just above my bum.

I got to the hospital to be met with a sign saying "Waiting time for car park is an hour" so craftily went and parked down by the seafront, happy to undertake a brisk stroll in the Winter sun. The same Winter sun that disappeared the moment I parked and was replaced by a small but very wet hurricane.

The appointment was for the PM clinic and timed at 2.10. 'Ah,' thought I, 'let's assume afternoon clinic starts at 2 so I shouldn't have to wait long.' I got to the waiting room and was met by a sea of faces so settled myself down for a long wait. I plugged in my iPod and started watching The Simpsons, safe in the knowledge that I had 22 episodes to keep me going, and then realised that I wouldn't hear my name being called. I reluctanly removed the earpieces and suddenly became aware that about a dozen oldies all around me had been watching entranced at this new-fangled gadget and, by switching it off, I was ruining their quality of waiting life.

Still, my need was greater than theirs and I watched bemused as they all went flying over to the table for the one copy of Peoples Friend circa 1997 left available as entertainment now that I had disappointed them. I say "flying", it was more of an orchestrated ballet of zimmers, trusses and umbrellas. Oh, to be old!

Right, next problem: I wanted a wee. What if I went and they called my name? I sat there for ages, silently berating myself that I hadn't gone when I first thought of it as, now time had passed on, they were even more likely to call it. As my bladder was starting to ache, they called me. At last!

I went into the examination room and Mr H, the consultant, appeared. As I had sat in the waiting area, I conjectured on the possibilities of a posse of students all clustered round gazing at my nether regions when my time came. As it happened, I was wrong: there was just one single, solitary, gorgeous young lady. Aaargh!

Mr H had a good look as I lay on my side facing the wall. I'm sure I heard a phone camera click so, if there is ever the posterial equivalent of FaceBook (ArseBook?) on the internet, she's the one to blame. By the way, mine is the pert one with the small downy patch of hair in the small of the back!

He is apparently worried about fistulas and has arranged an MRI scan to determine what surgery is necessary. I was in and out in about 5 minutes so it's now down to another several month wait for that presumably? Ho hum!

Still, it got me blogging again so it's not all bad :)