Dear Chroniclers,this evening sees me stationed uncomfortably at the Remington Noiseless - propped up in the electrofried bath-chair, a hot-water bottle strapped to my nether-regions and nursing an aching back. I blame it all on Miles Davis ...
In a Silent Way
Regular visitors to the House of electrofried will be aware of my advancing years. As a man begins to face the inevitable truth of middle-age, so his thoughts turn inexorably to thoughts of mortality, tartan blankets, carpet-slippers and a little light jazz. And so it was for yours truly just a month ago.
Whilst browsing the shelves of Little Wittering's finest CD'n'vinyl record emporium I heard the stentorian roar of a trumpet issue forth from the massed boom-boxes mounted overhead. It struck me at once as a thing of beauty, a richly silvered thread of notes shining out from a dark abyss of floppy-haired X-Factored rejects and general pop-frippery. It was music for the soul.
With my meagre weekly allowance from mrs electrofried clutched in my sweaty palm I strode manfully to the counter and enquired as to the origin of this delightful muse.
"Err, dunno mate ..."
was the initial, mumbled reply, but on further examination a sparkling new CD case was duly produced. Moments later I left the emporium, a smile on my face, clutching a copy of "Filles de Kilimanjaro" by the inestimable, Miles Davis.
And so, I was hooked.
Spend,Spend, Spend!
How I wish I had never hot-wired the Remington Noiseless to the interweb!
For many a year I laboured under the sad misapprehension "broadband" was something to do with the rapidly accelerating girth of the electrofried underpants collection, but now I find myself the very image of post-modernity, a pinkie-finger poised tremulously above the "Send" button as I contemplate the purchase of yet another Miles Davis box-set.
You see, the man has an absolutely gargantuan back-catalogue. The fact he departed this mortal coil on 28th September 1991 seems largely to have by-passed his musical publishers. Scarce a month goes by without another addition to his legendary canon - and being a sad, lonely anorak, how can I resist the temptation? And so the pinkie finger descends once more as yet another on-line purchase is made.
You may be forgiven for believing the latest financial crisis gripping the world's investment markets has it origins in the collapse of the American sub-prime mortgage sector. The truth of the matter, however, is to be found far closer to home. I lie awake at night, gripped in a cold sweat as I contemplate the imminent arrival of the electrofried credit-card statement.
Things are getting so bad I've entrusted the card in question to Fetlock the Butler, our Slovenian man-servant. He's under the strictest of instructions not to return the wretched thing to me until the current spending fever in which I am gripped has loosened its wicked hold.
Under My Wheels
It's not just the credit-card that's taken a bashing of late. Twice a day, heavily-laden pantechnicons pull up the unadopted road that bounds the electrofried estate to disgorge the latest delivery of Miles Davis box-sets from Master Amazon and his market-place chums. Needless to say, their burdensome wheels have wreaked havoc on the sub-structure of this historic, but flimsy, highway.
The road, which is bumpy at the best of times, has begun to resemble a derelict Army Assault Course replete with a capacious bunker-system of sufficient size and depth to swallow an average family hatch-back whole. Chroniclers, we talk not of mere pot-holes, these things are veritable caverns.
But praise be, for today has seen community action at Little Wittering on a scale that brings to mind halcyon memories of the war-time spirit.
Hit the Road, Jack
It started at crack of dawn this morning when a delivery lorry emptied its contents into three neat, black piles - one at each end of the road and one in the middle. You see, a jolly burgher who lives but a stones-throw from the electrofried estate had spotted a bulk-order of hardcore going cheap on eBay, sale or return.
The villagers turned out en masse, eschewing the opportunity to linger "en lit". With shovels duly shouldered they formed ranks and began the arduous task of spreading the three piles across the pot-hole strewn remains of the road.
Teas were made, wheel-barrows wheeled and sundry small children extracted from the worst of the triurnal hardcore dust-bowls. And of course, yours truly strode out, clad in his best gardening spats, to supervise affairs.
Beast of Burden
As I look longingly from the Tower window I see below me a freshly restored road, the black spine of hardcore now sewn neatly down its central pull. What a communal effort, but what a price to pay! My back aches, and not even regular infusions of the blessed elixir, Horlicks can assuage the pain.
Worse still, the moment the repairs to the road were completed a cheery red postal-van arrived outside the gates to the House, bearing with it the long dreaded credit-card statement. Mrs electrofried was not amused.
Not only had the purchase of sundry Davis box-sets depleted the already meagre piggy-bank set aside for our Christmas turkey, the last debit was for a monthly subscription to a dubious web-site that goes by the name of "Wanton Wenches of Western Slovenia.com". Fetlock the Butler occupies the Tower cell next to mine as the strains of mrs electrofried's extensive collection of Perry Como Cd's play out on the trusty Victrola.
Spare a thought for us both as we complete our miserable penance "forte et dure".
yours achingly,
electofried (mr)
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