Taking my normal route to Cannon Hill Common; with the exception of entering it through Joseph Hood recreation ground alongside; I paused in Maycross Avenue to chat to Keyline paviers. Proud of their work, the man in charge told me how, with a membrane and a layer of concrete, they eradicated the weeds which I had seen a homeowner in another garden killing off, during a period of several days, earlier in the year. This carport is there for good.
In the recreation ground, the grass was experiencing what is probably the final cut of the season.
As usual, alongside the lake, the vase attached to Allan William Marshall’s memorial bench was full of fresh flowers; 
ducks were being fed; and fishing was in progress.
Another grand oak had lost a limb, segments of which now encircle the tree, ensuring that there will be no need to manufacture benches in that part of the common for a long time to come. Squirrels were racing up trees getting in supplies for the winter.
Walking back along the lake I chatted with Jordan and his friends. Having the occasional difficulty with his line, there was great excitement when this boy was thought to have caught another fish. His first catch, swimming around, as if in a goldfish bowl, in a large orange bucket, was being gleefully inspected by his two friends. There was some banter about who might be scared to touch the slippery scales. The young lady, whose shiny patent leather handbag lay alongside other containers on the bank, was convinced the catch was ‘a pikey’. The young angler was not so sure. Having explained what I was doing, I had no need to worry about whether they knew what a website was. Jordan’s male friend pulled out his Blackberry so I could enter the address in it. I was somewhat relieved it was the same as my own mobile device, otherwise I probably wouldn’t have been able to do so. His companion told him he just had to e-mail it to Jordan and he would have it too. Looking back over the years spanning today and my junior exploits described in my post of 30th. May, expanded in Chris’s comment on that of the next day, the advance in children’s equipment and communication skills was mind-boggling.
Hi, folks.
Hoping to avoid the rush hour traffic Jackie and I set off for The Firs earlier than usual, to be met by a snarl-up at the far end of Hillcross Avenue. This had been caused by another taxi breaking down (see 26th. September). This time, actually on the roundabout. We got through this quite quickly, but the journey still took almost two hours.
Jackie, Elizabeth, Danni and I ate at the Eastern Nights. Eventually. Jackie drank Bangla, I had Cobra, and the other two shared a bottle of Cote du Rone. Eventually. The food was as wonderful as ever. Eventually. As we waited for an hour and a half for our meals we became aware that the two staff out front, both working their socks off, both very pleasant, yet rushed off their feet, were prioritising the takeaway service. The phone was going all the time, and one or the other of them was rushing to answer it and take the order. People who came into the restaurant for takeaway meals long after us, were being presented with their food long before us. I had decided I would speak to them about this the next time we went in on a quiet night, but after this length of time I had had enough. I went up to the bar and leant on it waiting for one of the men to come. At that moment, out from the kitchen came our hot-plates. As our waiter left those on the table and approached me, I had a quick rethink. I asked him for another pint of Cobra. It still seemed best to speak quietly about the problems at another time. The others all agreed.
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