We’ll go no more a roving so late into the night

country road night

Well, not if I have my way they won’t.

Before we bought this finca the wide verge on the top road was a well known spot for nocturnal encounters of both the romantic and the commercial kind.

Gradually, what used to be lines of cars have dwindled to a few individuals and this winter they had disappeared altogether.

However, summer is with us and traditionalists are trying to keep up old customs.

I do not care in the least what people get up to on the verge of the top road…as far as I am concerned they can have a full scale Roman orgy on the Cecil B. de Mille scale complete with female flute players and acrobats.

I also know that with the close knit nature of family life in rural Costa Rica the minute that young lovers booked themselves  into one of the twenty four hour hotels of the area their grannies would know in an instant so often the car in a back road is the only means of obtaining a little privacy.

Equally, the ladies of the night find that their clients do not wish to shell out for a room…

However, I am fed up with the orgiasts who shower their rubbish on the verge and inside my property where the dogs and the sheep can get at it.

It might make a sociological study to examine the rubbish thus deposed…from the nature of it, could you reach conclusions about the social status of the nocturnal noshers?

Fast food containers, chicken bones, plastic bags, cans of beer, mixers and soft drinks prevail…together with the ubiquitous used condoms.

I used to go  out with a strong torch and one of the Staffies, but I am getting to an age when struggling into the dressing gown, finding the shoes and harnessing up Einstein or Bunter is getting to be rather too much of a performance, not to speak of the distance down the drive and along the boundary, so I asked for advice on Facebook as to how to set up a strong searchlight as a deterrent…and had many interesting suggestions following which I asked Don Freddy if his electrician son had any ideas.

Yes, he had several, including electrifying the fence.

I rejected that as I would be sure to forget to turn the thing off and end up electrocuting myself, so he agreed to set up a light with a cable and a switch on the balcony.

How, he asked, would I know that the cars were there without some photocell thing which any passing animal would switch on.

IMG_20180204_141405

Because Einstein snoozes on the balcony on summer nights and he strongly objects to cars which stop in the area of the house.

Cars which pass are fine.

Cars which stop are not.

Accordingly Don Freddy’s son set up the light on a tree well inside the property…in case some bright spark should steal it.

Night one.

Einstein, roused from slumbers, barks. Going to the window I see tail lights being switched off, so switch on my floodlight.

Crumbs! Don Freddy’s son has excelled himself! You could play a Test Match under it!

The car moves off.

One more turns up later…same gravy.

Night two.

Einstein barks. The sheep, whose pen is close to the road, are also disturbed.

No sign of tail lights, but I switch on the light anyway to illuminate a lithe two legged shape inside my property legging it for the boundary fence with a solid four legged shape rapidly gaining on it.

The four legged shape wins and the night is full of noise and fury…noise from the two legged who is hooked up on the wire in fine World War I style and fury from the four legged who is endeavouring to push him bodily into it.

Monty is loose.

IMG_20180204_172226

No, I do not have a photograph of Monty in action – you would have to have a screw loose to  hang about when he is – but from an abandoned lamb brought up on the bottle he has become a well muscled patriarch with a fine territorial instinct and a murderous temperament.

Someone comes along the road to extricate the intruder and there is a noise as of a car pulling away from somewhere down the hill to leave the night to silence…and to Monty.

Don Freddy’s son was right…someone had tried to steal the light. Might be a frustrated orgiast, might just be one of the local druggies after something to sell to feed his habit.

I await night three.

 

First World Problems

windows

My computer will not open the website I wish to consult.

It will not, in fact, open any website.

Investigation of the bowels of the thing reveals – eventually – that the Windows firewall will not allow anything to pass it.

Zilch.

I mess about with the tolerance levels of the Windows firewall. It appears that those levels resemble the attitude of the Rev. Ian Paisley to mention of the Pope.

And just like the Rev. Ian, the Windows firewall has no intention of changing its views.

Eventually I turn off the computer and take to strong waters.

The next day the computer will allow access. Clearly the Windows firewall has not the  staying power of the Rev. Ian.

Probably lacking the moral support of a piss and vinegar band accompanied by the lambeg.

Technology, in respect of the internet, is a wonderful thing. If only firms like Microsoft would not keep hiring people to bugger it up for those of us who buy a computer with the idea of being able to communicate….to learn…to switch the wretched thing on to access the world rather than to learn that Windows is configuring it – at length.

You switch off at night.

No…Windows is configuring….you have to sit up or trust the brute not to stall.

You switch on in the morning…

Would you believe it? Windows is still messing about with the computer’s innards like an incompetent surgeon in search of a missing swab.

So while you wait you think you will check Facebook on your mobile ‘phone.

Fat chance. The blasted thing wants to download an upgrade – echoes of the Grand Old Duke of York – but on having agreed to its request it will smugly tell you that you do not have enough space in what is laughingly called the memory and you must then abandon other sites such as Kindle in order to make space for it.

Not a chance, Facebook!

Between being able to read books I have chosen and a screenful of ads which bear no relation to my interests there is no contest.

How Facebook believes that I wish to know fifteen methods of cleaning my oven without using harmful chemicals is beyond me, but whoever devised that algorithm has his airse oot the windae.

Come to that I can live without those who post that they are feeling down, wait for fifteen concerned souls to respond in terms of increasing anxiety and then say that they will reply by pm.

First world problems, comes the smug, dismissive reply from the yoga mats…..

Quite right the yoga mats! It is indeed, which does not make it any less of a problem, indicative as it is of a society where companies believe and act as though those who buy their products are supplicants before their altars rather than the foundation of their fortunes.

Mark you, I am beginning to believe that companies produce items as a sort of front for their real activities, such as buying up their own shares to boost the price on the stock market which in turn increases the value of the options held by their directors who all appoint one another in a game of musical chairs in which chairs are added rather than removed and a golden parachute takes them from one set of chairs to another when their incompetence becomes notorious even in their own ranks.

Incompetence used to be regarded as a Third World problem…’If only they knew how to manage things better…’ but is fast becoming the mark of the First World.

To work out the price of a ticket from London to Milton Keynes requires an Enigma machine while the French railway company, SNCF, managed to advertise cheap  tickets to be sold ‘at dawn’ which, had they ever existed, had vanished long before Bright Phoebe rose above the horizon to the chagrin of all those who had set their alarm clocks in order to take advantage of the offer.

U.K. embassies no longer issue passports….banks can’t tell their arse from their elbow when it comes to security…websites go in loops…

I tell you