Three Words

I sit here writing to you today from Ducks Deck Canny about yesterday’s trip to Care Guilty Buns. Or more specifically to check out the Epic Iran exhibition at Pokers Apple Lame, after which Mrs P and I enjoyed an early dinner at Punt Limp Trucks before heading home to Hands Second Boat.

You either have the What Three Words app and have cottoned on to my apparently cryptic first paragraph. Or you don’t, in which case you are befuddled and should go here to check it out. It can be useful. Got visitors from afar who are prone to getting lost? Don’t let them out of the house on their own without this app.

Care Guilty Buns, or London if you insist, is getting busier by the day. Yesterday, it seemed almost back to normal, minus the foreign tourists and bus loads of school kids that normal overload the streets of the capital. It’s a bank holiday weekend and the sun was out, so crowds were to be expected, I suppose. It was nice to see. Perhaps you’re wondering where the photo was taken. I can tell you exactly where I was stood when taking the shot – Metro Ritual Atom.

There’s three other words that sum up where we are as things reopen from lockdown. Three words I haven’t seen in well over a year are now regularly popping up on my work WhatsApp group. Three words that describe an increasing number of train services to and from London: Full and standing.


Summer 2021

Good news. Summer has at last arrived. It has been an awfully long time coming. We were beginning to worry that we might not have a summer this year. The photo was taken this morning at my club, having just gone for a swim and spa session. That’s the first hole of the golf course, which looks glorious under a blue sky. I’ve been thinking about cancelling my gym and swim membership. Perhaps I shouldn’t. Perhaps I should hand over an extra £30 a month to have golf added to my account. I could buy some golfing bats off Facebook for about £50.


This One Time In Mexico

This year marks a full decade since I departed Mexico and came back to the United Kingdom. I still miss Mexico, warts and all. Indeed, it’s the warts that I perhaps remember most fondly and most vividly. Sure, the food, weather and lifestyle were fabulous. Mexico City gave me better material for blogging. I had two weeks off every Christmas, Easter and summer. And, thanks to being self employed, whenever else I wanted, personal finances allowing. But that’s the sort of standard stuff that is done and dusted within two minutes of a conversation starting. It’s the random, freaky stuff that makes a good story, usually finishes with a chuckle, and someone muttering ‘only in Mexico’.

There was this one time… Mrs P went to the local Pollo Feliz rotisserie to buy some flame grilled chicken for dinner, and came back with two boxes. One had the tasty chicken in it, ready for eating. The other had a live chick in it. As a gift from Pollo Feliz. Because it was Children’s Day. So of course. Why wouldn’t a chicken restaurant give away live chicks to families in Mexico City? We ate our chicken while its offspring ran around the kitchen floor, tweeting and pooping.

There was this one time…I went to go get my hair cut at Augustin’s salon, just fifty metres down a back alley from our place. But he wasn’t there, because he’d been murdered over night. Someone clubbed him to death with a toilet seat, peeled his face off and then did something with it. I never did find out what happened to his face, but I did find a new place to get my hair cut.

There was this one time… I got off the metro at Cuatro Caminos and found a load of spent bullet cases all over the place. Must have been a pretty wild party the night before. I guess. I kept one as a souvenir.

There was this one time… that there was a pretty big earthquake, late one evening. Big enough that everyone in the block evacuated. I ran outside in my T-shirt and boxers clutching a bowl full of my pet terrapins. The reputation also damage was immense. For years to come people would abandon their terrapins on my doorstep.

There was this one time… that posters appeared all over the neighbourhood, with an artists impression of a serial killer. He had just killed another victim. He had been nicknamed the Little Old Lady Killer. Except it wasn’t a he, it was a she. The culprit was a semi-famous female wrestler. Still, that wasn’t as weird as the time Super Porky’s pair of midget wrestling buddies were killed by an accidental drug overdose by some prostitutes they’d taken to a dodgy hotel for a night of debauchery…

There was this one time… that I was watching a guy on the street passing a metal ladder up to another guy on the roof of a single story building. They were carefully trying to navigate it between the wall of the building and some power cables. I thought that this was likely to end with a bang and one or two dead folk. I wondered exactly how they thought this would end. Then there was a bang and one or two dead folk, and I realised that I would never know how they thought it would end.

Perhaps one day I should write a book. I already have the title. There Was This One Time In Mexico.