They never cease to amaze me. Hackneyed, tired old topic, I know, but this one deserves at least some attention. I mean, buying a toby jug to add to your sad little collection is one thing, stumping up a few hundred quid for a dodgy motor sight unseen is another, but laser eye surgery? Good grief. Some people must be very trusting indeed.

Having talked to a consultant opthalmologist about the whole thing, I’ve been put off for a good ten years or so. Let’s see the real long-term effects before taking the plunge, eh? Still, on the plus side, I’ll only ever have to pay for one eye….

It’s true, you know. The degreaser really did shift a lot of sordid frightfulness on the tiles and extractor around the cooker with a bit of help from me. Took the linings out of my nostrils, mind. Must wear a mask next time.

Rock and Roll!

Not too impressed with the first listen to the Bloc Party album, Silent Alarm. The single reminded me of Pale Saints; not so the other tracks. Faint whiffs of Blur, which to me are never welcome really. More listens needed.

Well, there went Forest’s goal difference. 6 - 0. I ask you. Etc. etc. Arse.

Jobs today: finishing (really, this time) touches to the new bathroom, including chopping out some floor grout I wasn’t happy with a re-doing it. A walk with Desdog and then, while I still had my boots and my nerves, the dreaded poo-picking on the back lawn. Ewwwww. There honestly must have been two kilos. Picking it up with one plastic bag, decanting it into another, all the while with a look of mortal distaste on my face.

What was the “close run thing” of the title? Well, I mixed far too much grout for the little bits I needed to replace. I put the rest in a carrier bag and straight into the dustbin. Later, whilst finishing off the floor, I noticed a bit that needed more grout. By then it was dusk. Out to the dustbin, hand into the carrier bag and upstairs I go with a dollop of dark grey grout. Only when I got back into the bathroom did I think about it: in the half-light, it would have been all too easy to get the wrong bag and scoop ordure rather than grout. Ick!

Nightmare! Well, no, not really - my first follow-up consultation following the surgery went well and it looks like it’s healing nicely but ouch! No footy for another three weeks! What am I going to do? I’m handing the Stalwart trophy to some other bugger at the end of the year and no mistake…

Evil dreams, that is. We ate at the Chinese all-you-can-eat place again and, ayup, freakish dreams all night. How about sitting in a castle’s moat that later transpires to be a dry-dock of some kind, in a suit of armour that at the same time is a wetsuit, employed to pick golf balls up out of the moat? Happens to me every day, dunno about you.

Good Lord, good Lord. Spine-tingling. If ever it was worth fighting our way 70 miles to Shepherds Bush on a wet Wednesday night, last night was the time. It’s rare that you get eight musicians on stage who are all so talented without at least one of them jerking off, showing just how clever they can be, bringing the whole thing down. The songs were king, the arrangements thoughtful, and the atmosphere sparkling. These are people who know what they’re doing, and what they are doing is a very direct communication of feeling from stage to floor.

I normally have a sinking feeling about only being able to see bands in London rather than “the regions” (HATE that phrase). London crowds are often stone-faced, jaded even. They stand there with a look as if to say to the band “go on then, impress me”. I suppose we bumpkins are just supposed to be grateful that anyone plays our little halls. This show, though, was different. For a start, the venue is fantastic: small, pretty, and friendly. It doesn’t feel like a London venue. The crowd was full of nice people, just like Feist a few months ago (though older). Heck, we were even allowed glass bottles in the auditorium. What it is to be treated like an adult!

The moment that Sally began with an acappella verse from Cole Porter’s “Don’t Fence Me In”, we knew the effort of getting there had been worth it. Straight into “Jackson”, and we were away. People use the term ’spine tingling’ to mean just ‘good’ but I really was feeling shivers. I’m a cynical old bastard, one who still was feeling a bit ill, so that means something proper. Highlights? Well, it’s easier to pick out the songs I’m not quite so convinced by; I think there were two. Everything else was just sublime.

“Lazy Eye” was loose-limbed and sexy, “The Fire Thief” superb, “The Beautiful Sea” sensuous and “Pacific Street” just plain pretty. I know how much I hate reading gushy reviews myself, so I’ll stop now, but you get the picture. Oooh, hang on, I haven’t dealt with the encores! The crowd were gagging for “Valentine’s Day” and they got it, but not before an energetic version of “Cuckoo” that brought the house down. The band were having fun, and it came across. Sometimes you’re prepared to believe them when they say they had been looking forward to coming back to Bush Hall.

“Lets have another Matrix”, said the producers.

The thing is, there should be a special phrase for this. Maybe a new word. “Pregret”, perhaps. I know it will be shite, but I also know that at some point, I will spent 2 hours of my life watching it. Perhaps I’ll even pay to do so. I will bow, eventually, to the hype.

I suppose I was pleasantly surprised by how well I felt straight after the operation on Friday. Perhaps anaesthetics have improved since 1986, in fact I’m sure they have. Of course it could have more to do with the fact that this time my op was only 1 hour instead of what I recall being told was between 4 and 5. Mind you, my memory is rubbish, so it could all be drivel.

This being my first in-patient experience of the NHS for a while, I didn’t know quite what to expect. The administration was nothing short of shambolic - quite possibly through no lack of capability of the staff but sheer overwork: the demand for beds is fearsome. Mind you, I’m pretty sure that I shouldn’t have been handed somebody else’s confidential notes, unsealed, to carry up to the ward. Bad, bad, bad. There was alcohol hand-wash everywhere, of course, and the ward was newly refitted and clean. One of the fancy new electrically powered beds didn’t work, which meant lots of swapping around. The food wasn’t too bad either - much better than I remember it before. No cabbage.

Naturally, though, what really mattered was the medical treatment and as has been the case every single time I’ve needed it, it was fantastic. The only slight niggle, again caused by time pressures on the staff, is that you don’t really feel able to ask all of the questions you want to.

Sorry, I realise this is a bit of a ramble - not that good at concentrating yet. More later.

Right: off to Billy Random Ward at Addenbrookes. Wish me luck!