Pub

I think, dear reader, I went to more pubs and bars during my last visit to England than I did during the whole of 2006.

Seriously!

The first one was The Brasshouse on Westover Road in Bournemouth. They do a good deal on lunch. But it was slightly chavish. All the barmaids wore massive hoop ear-rings. And you know how the saying goes, the bigger the hoop, the bigger the chav. The chips had to be scanned for stray pubic hairs and cigarette ash.

Much to the annoyance of my Mother, my sister and her daughter spent more time texting and exchanging rude images via bluetooth than chatting. Tsk. Indeed. If my Mum were ever to use the word fucking, it would be to describe mobile telephones and/or their users. Not that she doesn't have one herself. She does. I bought it for her in case she falls over and no-one's around. Or if she's in the middle of no-where with no money for a taxi. Or any other as yet unimagined disaster scenario. So you're guessing she keeps the telephone in her purse, aren't you, hen? Wrong! It stays on top of the bread-making machine. While with my Mother, she asked me to bring the telephone to her, from the kitchen to the living room. She wanted to call her Granddaughter and it's less expensive mobile to mobile. I had to blow the dust off of said device before she could see the screen.

After lunch, my sister returned to work. My niece and I walked into the town centre to have my spectacles repaired, dropping my Mother off at a coffee shop along the way. Poor Mum. She suffers with her back and legs and really cannot walk very far at all.

I was only gone ten minutes. On returning to Mum, I found she was on her third cup of coffee and second fat and sugar free muffin!

Kathy then left us for her home-coming beau, George. Mum and I decided a trip to the cinema was in order. Back to Westover Road and The Number 23.

What a vile little film! What was Jim Carrey thinking? That it was another dire comedy? That hammy acting was de rigeur? That the script was in Braille?

The whole thing was dreadful, trying to mix 1930s styling with children's comics and be highbrow at the same time. Perhaps it is possible, I don't know, but it didn't work here.

Jim plays a dog-catcher. His wife gives him a type written book which she supposedly stumbles upon in a second-hand book shop. He discovers the narrator's life is uncannily like his own... Esoterics and conspiracy theorists will love the proposed ideas about the number 23. Jim's character did. First of all, the viewer thinks it's driving him mad, whereas in actual fact, it's returning him to sanity. The book demands investigation and Jim's character complies. Sadly, the answers are sillier than the questions. After a long and ridiculous explanation of how Jim's character and the book are connected, the viewer finds the number 23 plays no part at all.

What a pile of shit.

Mum's coming up to Edinburgh today for a long weekend. There will positively definitely be no trips to the cinema. But we will go and see Fame The Musical! Exciting! Nice to see men in lycra!