Out in the wilds

Firstly, apologies to all dedicated and loyal mudpuddlers who have wondered where I could possibly be since the last update. Of course, I have merely moved and been spending a little time getting used to my new surroundings. I am currently waiting for broadband to reengage itself into my mainframe, up to 3 weeks from now being the latest prognosis. Hence I am taking the opportunity to post from a well signalled area of the county, my new home being in something of a zone of uncertainty where the wonders of donglage are concerned. Indeed this is one of many things I have had to adjust to with some haste, which leads me on to the core of today’s musings.

As well as the remarkable inertness of signals hereabouts, I have suddenly realised the number of stars in the sky may be somewhat more than the 4 readily visible in the skies above Dereham, partially obscured by the glare of street lights. There are, not to put too fine a point on it, flippin millions. The night sky has become a wonderment again - something truly awe inspiring that restores one’s spirituality a touch (just a touch, mind you). The reason, as I am sure rural mudpuddlers have already identified, is the lack of street lighting, and the difference that makes to what you see above you.

Looking up in awe is all well and good, but it comes with it’s own perils. The absence of street lighting, combined with my slack jawed appreciation of the firmament has already led to forced interaction with a rubbish bin, and in putting out my own rubbish for collection, has taught me how to guesstimate where the path is - one, twp miss a few, ninety-nine, a hundred appears to be the easiest logical methodology.

My back garden is, if I do say so myself, impressive. It stretches for a good long wandering. Additionally my O2 signal becomes magically active towards the open ground at the far end. Whilst I have grabbed the exciting opportunities that bondage to Vodaphone for 24 months and a signal indoors has to offer, I have a rolling contract of some value with the good folks at O2 so will not be abandoning it totally. Have I mentioned that at the end of my very long garden, where the signal is it’s strongest, is a pond? By now, you will be forming the same conclusions I have come to. As Rolf Harris would opine ‘can you tell what it is yet?’. Let’s review the evidence - No lighting, a long garden promising a signal at it’s far end, an unwillingness and stubborness making the ditching of O2 nigh on impossible, a fascination with the stars and a proven clumsiness under the cloak of the rural night.

How long, dear mudpuddlers, before I am knee deep in the pond, trying to listen to a crackly voicemail message whilst looking up and thinking how beautiful the heavens look when you are cold and wet.

Ladbrokes, I am told, have stopped taking bets on it.