Quite frankly it wouldn't bother me overmuch if I never saw that drab, uninteresting place ever again. I'm not one for "city breaks" at the best of times, and Liverpool has the added disadvantage of being populated by Liverpudlians who in my experience are all weighed down by enormous chips on their shoulders, but Paul wanted to see it, and I didn't have anything better to do, so off we went.
At least the day started well. I didn't have to drive. We took the train, which gave us the opportunity to breakfast on bagels from The Bagel Factory. It was around then that things took a turn for the worse though, as I hit the wrong button on the ticket machine (by millimetres) and bought us three SINGLE tickets to Lime Street. Which, as it turned out, was only ten PENCE cheaper per ticket than three returns, thereby costing us an extra thirty quid. An expensive mistake which didn't do much for my mood, especially bearing in mind the destination.
Arriving at Lime Street around 11am, we trudged off to visit Paddy's wig-wam, and from there went down to the Albert Dock to mooch disconsolately around the rusting hulks and newly refurbished visitors centre selling the same tired old tat you always get at these places, along with the usual assortment of coffees and fast food.From there we hiked the five hundred and eighty miles to the St John Centre, a stunningly original shopping centre with no roof and an array of shops never before seen like Gap, M&S, William Hill's, Dolcis and Waterstones. You begin to get a flavour of why I think visiting cities is largely pointless. Even a late lunch in Wetherspoons did little to alleviate my feelings of impending doom. Mainly because we revisited The Richard John Blackler, which has just about the worst online reviews of any Wetherspoons I've ever visited, and lived up to its poor reputation for dirty tables, late food and disinterested staff.
Somewhere along the line we also wandered past the Cavern Club, and took the concrete steps down into its dingy interior. The air was redolent of years of sweaty bodies packed into what is effectively an underground toilet, the acid rock stage reminiscent of my student days when we would hump such a construction from one end of the student union to another to accommodate some random event or other, and every available surface is covered with graffiti from those strange people who think it's important to record the fact that they've visited a place like this. In that respect, maybe this blog is like a slightly more sophisticated form of graffiti. The differences being that I'm not really bothered whether anyone knows I've been there or not - it was just another stop - and, of course, that this graffiti is here, rather than there. Anyway, it's a dump. Famous only because one of the world's most recognised bands played there a few times, still living on that reflected glory fifty years later, and now hosting bands that just want to be able to tick the box that says "we played the Cavern Club." Sad.The highlight of the day proved to be a visit to the Apple store, which unusually for us turned into much more than a quick wander round and a drool. For once we did talk to one of the demo guys and learned quite a lot about what you can do with an iMac, what's in the box, etc. They're still expensive for what you get, but they're bloody fast, almost virus-free and beautiful to look at. I know that description will sound a lot like Linux to at least one of you (apart from the expensive bit), but it was an interesting hour for all that.
Today Nikki & Paul headed off for a walk around the Salford Quays/Castlefield canals, so I took the opportunity to stay at home and do not very much. Our day was rounded off with another evening meal at Wetherspoons followed by some TV. Perfect.
We began our safari across the road with some delicious piri-piri chicken, falafel, some kind of cured meat, and a huge pile of tuna samosas, along with "Safari" cider. Back to our side but further down for a selection of mezzes and a delicious orangey drink concoction whose name escapes me, before moving on to ours for bobotie and African Violets. As soon as we decided the theme for tonight, I knew I'd be cooking bobotie. I haven't had it for 25+ years but back then it was an old favourite. I had thought it originated in Kenya, but that's just where the person who introduced ME to it came from. A quick Google for the recipe revealed it to be a traditional South African dish (and before that, Dutch), which gave me a brief pause as one of our neighbours hails from SA and I knew I'd be feeding it to an expert.
It's becoming something of a tradition on safari nights to have cocktails at our place, so I was delighted to find 
It now glories in having its own visitor centre and a wealth of touristy shops, but in the heavy rain nowhere looks at its best, and our desultory trudging was soon curtailed by a wish to retreat to the relative dryness of the car. We headed for Conw(a)y, where thankfully the rain left us alone for an hour or so as we parked, enjoyed a pint, walked along the seafront for a short distance and then happened across a brace of fish & chip restaurants.
It's a fairly interesting front as seaside towns go, made even more interesting by this clever dolphin fountain. It comes equipped with a wind sensor, so when the air speed rises above a preset point the fountain shuts off to avoid splashing the passersby. Ain't technology wonderful?
Fortunately (this time) the "Arousal" cafe was also closed, so as that underlined the slimness of the chances of any further arousal in Barmouth we returned to the car and headed for Portmeirion.
Maybe the sad but simple explanation is that the Prisoner has a greatly reduced profile compared with twenty years ago, and perhaps the village felt it was faintly ridiculous to keep trading on the fading cachet of a 40-year-old TV series, no matter how iconic.
Before long we were tucked away in the bar of the small but perfectly formed Dovey Hotel, enjoying the first of many pints of Brains. In some strange way a perfect alternative to our usual pints of Boddies.
I don't know what it is about travelling with Paul, but we always seem to come across unusual signs. Last year it was 
It never fails to amaze me what a difference it makes when a room (or part of a room in this case) is professionally plastered. There's something very soothing about the smooth cool surface, and naturally it looks miles better than bare brick and thermalite block.
From the outside the new window looks the business, and Nikki's very pleased that she now has a "proper" windowsill to hold some well-chosen knick-knacks, not to mention it being several degrees warmer in the kitchen now.
After clarification with the contractor it turns out we won't be plastered up until Friday. He claims he explained this when he told me work would start yesterday, but I have no recollection. Makes sense when you think about it though - everything has to dry out and become stable before it can be plastered.
When real builders get going, things start happening very quickly. With a great deal of crashing and banging, the step was removed and pretty soon the brickies were asking for the key so they could open the door.
By the time they stopped for lunch, a third of the doorway was bricked and blocked, and when they finished for the day, we were (almost) secure.
From the outside, at least from the road, the job appeared already complete. It's not immediately obvious there's a gap down the left-hand side of the window, and the new brickwork looks bazzin. Even if it is, as expected, a different colour.
The previous occupiers had also added patio doors at the far end, leaving the original scullery door on the side of the house intact. As you can see, this greatly reduces the usability of the space especially if, like us, you never use the side entrance. Phase 1 of our kitchen refurb (and selected not just because it is the simplest and easiest first step, but also because it's the cheapest) is therefore to brick up this unused door and take the opportunity also to replace the original window with a warmer and less draughty double-glazed unit.
Outside, the step will be removed and the bricks matched as closely to the original as possible. Our builder already told us he'd been unable to find enough reclaimed brick for the job, so they won't be a very good colour match to start with, but at least they're the same type, so over time they will gradually acquire the same hue, and apart from that they're the correct style and size, so we're OK from a building regs/aesthetic point of view.
We've already prepped the inside as far as possible - removing everything from the vicinity of the door, knick-knacks from the sill, and other kitcheny type things. It's amazing how bare the kitchen looks with just these few things moved away (and how much bigger!). Gives us an early idea how much more usable space there will be when the cooker is eventually moved and the whole corner is installed with cupboards and worktop. Luxury!
I read the book over Christmas, at Blythe's suggestion, and wasn't overly impressed. Even though I devoured comic books as a teen, the graphic novel has never interested me. The story was good, and the art work uniformly excellent but nothing more than I'd come to expect from that kind of work. I didn't see much to rave over.
It's no exaggeration to say that, from the very first frame, I was blown away. I have never seen a film with such incredible... texture. I don't know how else to describe it. The cinematography was an order of magnitude better than anything I have ever seen. The images leapt out of the screen, fabulous close-ups with a wealth of detail, wonderful composition and imagery (the raindrops on the polished coffin lid is an image that keeps coming back to me, but there were dozens of others - gnarled faces with each hoary whisker almost deliberately positioned; rain-drenched streets; faultless costumes) and stunning iconography.
So much for the technical aspects. What of the story? As I've said, I'm not a dyed-in-the-wool fanboy of the novel, and I think this helped. Much of what irritated me about the book had been pared away. This was the central story of Watchmen. That is complex and detailed enough, without any of the frippery. Nor did I come to the theatre expecting a run-of-the-mill, all-action "superhero" flick. Many commenters have said Watchmen is "boring" or "slow." Come on - they have 30 years of backstory to get through, as well as a whole bag of complex interpersonal emotions to pack in to what never felt like two-and-a-half hours. All I can say is, it held my interest from start to finish. I never felt any itchiness at the pace (like I *definitely* did halfway through The Dark Knight, where I actually fell asleep at one point it was soooo sloooow). There was always something to hold my interest, be it action, dialogue, imagery, music, whatever.
As did the floor show. A girl with a very short skirt and very sturdy legs, who proceeded to throw herself about on a pair of poles and later, replace them with a pair of small platforms and bend herself double, backwards, to pluck a rose from the stage with her teeth. Damned flexible those Russians.
If pressed I'd have to say I particularly enjoyed the potato salad; the "Cold Water Prawns Served In A Fresh Orange & Topped With Special Cognac Cream Dressing" which really did come in a scooped-out orange, was deliciously cold and extremely tasty; and finally the Gribnaya which although it doesn't sound especially appetising when you read about it ("sliced mushrooms sautéed with fresh cream and onion & crowned with cheese"), and neither does it look much, just sitting there all small and alone in the cold white porcelain desert of its own large plate, is actually delicious.
Nevertheless the resulting tray of shots did look impressively varied and colourful, and we just had time to down ours before the disco kicked in and we beat a hasty retreat from the establishment, not wishing to embarrass ourselves with a display of "Dad" (and maybe even "Mum") dancing in the presence of the young 'uns.
