15st 6lb, zero units. Ah, the relief of having a good rant! In my fury, perhaps the point that I failed to get across in yesterday’s piece is that I have actually lived in a very remote part of rural England for almost 25 years. The foothills of the Cheviots contain a good many elderly people, and diehard rustics who have rarely if ever travelled further than Newcastle upon Tyne (certainly not to Gateshead). The important difference – and I freely confess that I had failed to appreciate it before – is that they are all as sharp as very pointy tacks compared with my new neighbours on the Cheshire/Shropshire/Welsh border. I can honestly say that I have never experienced similar frustrations while parking or shopping in Alnwick, Rothbury or Wooler. Perhaps I have been extraordinarily lucky. Or perhaps, just perhaps, the genes of the go-getting Anglian invaders of the North East are still winning through, compared with those of the knuckle-dragging morons they eased out of the area, who dimly trotted west until they fetched up where I am now.
It all adds up to a pretty powerful argument for relocating permanently to the North East as soon as possible, I think.
The amazingly unlikely true story of how a grumpy old man and lifelong bachelor won the love of a beautiful young woman and started a family – and all by writing a curmudgeonly blog about his lonely journey to the grave.
Now who would have predicted that?
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