Got wood?

This year my home folly is having a wood burning stove fitted. Not because I care about the environment. Not to save money, or even for the cosy glow that only real flames can give you.

It's because I like to burn things.

Wood mainly, and possibly a Euro 2012 wall chart when England get knocked out in the quarter finals.

Today it was the joy of quotes from installers. An endless parade of air sucked through teeth, of hushed mutterings about "building regs", of opinions delivered in a firm voice that totally contradicted what the previous guy had to say.

• You have to insulate your flue mate
• You don't have to insulate.

• You HAVE to have a liner mate
• I ALWAYS fit a liner, even though you don't have to
• I recommend a liner
• Fuck lining your chimney. You got a baby's bedroom mate? I'll just vent the stove into that

One guy made a great play about having to use scaffolding to get up the two storeys to the roof.

Another guy was blase about it - "just a ladder job mate".

Someone else is coming this afternoon - I'm guessing he'll favour some kind of circus based trampoline system to get up there.

I've set aside the whole of tomorrow morning to have a good mull.

• Which guy made the most sense?
• Who seemed the most knowledgeable?
• Do I go with the young and dynamic but slightly wide boy, or the more solid older guy?

And then I'll pick the lowest quote.

Out for a run

"Oy! You!"

The cry went from the yellow Saxo.

"Yeah, you. You run like a Springer Spaniel!"

It was already pulling away, so time only to smile and give a thumbs up.

The car slowed.

"Like a Spaniel with its legs broke!"

The mocking sound of tyres screeching as it sped away.

But he showed them how he ran, and he only fell over once before he caught them at the lights.

Then they showed him how they could open all four doors simulataneously when someone shouts, "Hey, dickheads!"

They showed him how well they could loom.

They all watched him for a while, before agreeing he had more the lolloping gait of a Golden Retriever about him.

I like fish

So I'm in Tesco and this guy who sort of looks like a guy I went to school with is on the fresh fish counter.

What do I do?

Where once we were equals now here I am filling my trolley with fresh olives and parma ham, and he goes home smelling of haddock.

Should I roll on over there and just pretend like I don't recognise him?

Fifth time around, and this could be a little awkward.

I could just roll on by, but I really want some Swordfish loin, and God, I've not had any dressed crab for two days.

Three circuits of the store later I come up with my genius plan - he's a jobbing actor. He's making his way to the top by taking any old crappy job in between acting gigs. This isn't a dead end, it's a mere stepping stone to a brighter life.

Full of gay abandon I march back to the fish counter, only Possibly Stuart is gone. There's some old lady serving there now, and that's okay - she's on the wind down path of her career, pulling a few shifts to buy Christmas presents for the grand kids.

Making a mental note to not say this kind of thing out loud I pick my fish up from the floor and head for the checkout.

It's a lovely sunny day. Birds are singing, and I have seared yellow fin tuna for tea.

In the car park Could Be Colin is collecting the trolleys.

Think of the children - save the planet!

I'm doing my bit with my car. It's not a Prius, it doesn't run on chip fat. And it's old, 13 years, and with a road tax pushing £200 but small engine you know it's from the era of cancer spewing death cars.

The way I look at it - there's enough C02 pumped out by building me my all new cool-mobile, and crushing the old one, to choke a fair sized Panda. By sticking to the car from the last century I'm actually saving lives. 

But now, like a couple of hippies on Grand Designs who want all natural and no concrete until they see the price, I'm starting to waver.

Four days in a shiny new rental car and I'm sorry animals, but you're all screwed. Lights that come on when it's dark - that's worth a baby meerkat or two. And crikey - wipers that sense the rainwater - sorry baby hippopotamous, you're just not that cute.

Coming back to the old jalopy the worst part wasn't leaning across to adjust the side mirror, and it wasn't the leaden feel of feet on pedals. Not even the inside fog mist that's like cataracts.

No, none of that. It was the smell.

Not a bad smell. Not the smell of endless coffee cups spilled in the side pocket, or that cucumber that rolled under the back seat.

It was the smell of memories. Of petrol and damp. Of hats slipping down over eyes, of grim reversings where no matter the kerb was two feet high and not a kerb at all, but dang it I will make it over despite all the crying from us kids in the back. The triumphant waving of disabled badges that means it's okay to park in the middle of a roundabout or up on that man's foot. 

My car reminds me of an elderly relative, long since passed. That's right, I have an old man's car.

No wonder the net curtains twitch when I drive past that retirement home two streets over.

How I shop for clothes

So there I am, loaded down with like fifty shirts from the sale rack and I go up to the blonde hair extension with smile at the cash desk.

Fix my best charm smile, and I say to her: "Do you know how many on sale fashion free polo shirts I can buy for the price of a single Ben Sherman top?"
She didn't, and she wasn't free for a date.

Too busy washing her hair extension I guess.

How I shop for cars

The guy comes over to me - white shirt stretched tight over belly, big bushy moustache, but he has a kindly smile.

"Can I help you sir?" he says.

It's a total reflex, and I tell him no, I'm just browsing.

In this car showroom two miles out of time. The place I had to drive to. In that piece of shit car he can see from the window.

He looks at the piece of shit, and he looks at me.

"Are you in the market for a new car?" he says.

I look at the piece of shit, and I look at him.

It's a total reflex, but I tell him no, not really.

He gets the message and I get to wander, all by myself.

I silently curse, wondering how I find out what ABS means without looking like a tit.

It'll go the same way most of my purchases do. A couple of weeks making the decision - whether to actually buy a car or not. Then a good few months of in depth research - working out whether I want 18V or 16V, do I want alloys, can I save myself £2.37 by getting the generic floor mats rather than the ones they make specifically for that model.

Followed by a single day of mad, carefree abandon as I decide to bloody do it, throw all my careful research out the window and buy something totally different because that's what they had in stock.

All you have is floor mats made of Madagascan Spider Silk, edged with gold and you can't get them wet? Gimme, gimme, gimme!

I like clean

Strange as it may seem to people who who come to my house - I like things clean.

Those piles of dust, the sixteen copies of Watchtower on the foot of the stairs, the red marks on the wall from where I kicked the pommegranate that time, all there because I haven't found the right tool.

It's not through wont of trying. I have so many gadgets for cleaning, all promise to make my life easier, but none have the wow factor to overcome laziness. I have a higher ratio of cleaning devices to dirt than an NHS hospital ward.

Until now.

Because now I finally have my handheld Dyson DC31.

I've wanted one of these babies for a while, always holding off because of the price tag. Can a handheld vacuum that costs over one hundred pounds really be worth it? I still don't know, but before you write me off as having more money than sense...

It looks like a gun.

It comes out of the box and you have to click things together like a sniper rifle. I'm tempted to get it a silver case filled with black foam inserts to fit the sleek form.

It also has a button that transforms it from a mere 38W of suck into a virtual hurricane of 60W. In layman's terms that's enough to take a wig off a bald man at forty paces. I'm also hoping it'll be enough to suck out those three apple cores that have glued themselves to the inside of my car's ash tray.

The DC31 is small and light, great for sneaking into the hospital with you when that guy with the comb over resents your little moment of fun.