But that's not what got me writing this entry. It's just something that reared it's head yesterday evening when I couldn't see the telly any more.
It occurred to me that I haven't put thoughts to blog for a very long time indeed, so to redress the balance here's a new entry. (the previous episode doesn't count 'cos it was written in February)
Mrs Gorilla will be retiring from work (yes, I still pack her off in the mornings to earn a crust)about 3 years hence, so we're starting to look around for a nice waterside property for the downhill years. Even looked at New Zealand, but the whole country appears to have had an architectural good taste bypass. So that's out. But, wherever we end up, surely we'll become grockles? I do not want to be a grockle. But I'm told that it takes at least 25 years to graduate from grockle to local, and that's just too long. Is there a way to become local immediately on arrival? Other than adopting a funny accent. I don't know. Scotland it is then. At least she speaks the language.
I notice that it has been Christmas again this year, what with the snow and TV ads for cheap furniture and easy loans. Forgot to prick those damnable chestnuts again, as well. Did you know they carry on exploding long after you've taken them out of the oven? We have chestnut shrapnel on the ceiling. Why do we insist on doing the bloody things? You cook them, they explode. You throw them away. And do the same thing the following year. Because it's "Christmassy". Hum. Instead of the turkey, we got a c#ckerel from one of our farming friends. I had no idea that a chicken could grow to that size. Some sort of super fowl, with muscles on muscles. Carved it for eight people and I'm pretty sure it didn't really get any smaller. Thing is, Mrs G decided that, as we were "only having a chicken", she'd get a small turkey as back up. Ah. Sandwiches, anyone?
But it was a super time. House filled with family and friends and noise and bonhomie. We should do this more often. At their house.