1588 and all that
Buggly Eyed Beasties
I looked at the ‘langostinos’ and rather disturbingly they looked back. I’ll give most things a try, but not when those ‘things’ are able to look at me, with more than a little recrimination, and have more legs than foodstuffs should have!
“Look Dad! Buggly eyed beasties!” the boys bellowed across the table at me, knowing that the unofficial name that I gave this favoured Spanish dish gets me in more than a little trouble with the natives.
I also can’t help but feel a little queasy when said natives are ripping apart the aforementioned buggly eyed beasties and leave what looks like a slaughter of the cast of fingerbobs.
The Christmas meal just doesn’t seem the same without an obscene amount of roasted turkey and a feeling afterwards that you’ll be pooping feathers for the next few days.
This year I thought that, rather than ask for my usual ‘useful’ gift, I would get something completely impractical and feed the big kid in me. Santa didn’t disappoint and I am now the proud owner of a mini Apache AH-64 remote controlled helicopter! The little devil fits in my hand and buzzes around the room menacing all that are within the vicinity… mainly due to my ineptness with the remote and the fact that it’s an absolute bastard to control.
In fact the full danger of me being behind the controls of the helicopter meant that I was banished to the spare room to try and perfect my skills without taking out a family member. The “you’ll take somebody’s eye out with that!” argument wasn’t won by myself when I pointed out that it *WAS* an attack helicopter.
Push the controls upwards and the helicopter shoots up and nearly hits the roof. Suddenly letting go of the control lever to stop it hitting aforementioned roof and it slams into the floor. Buggar! Push controls gently upwards and the helicopter lifts 4 foot off the floor and starts rotating in an annoying circle. Looking down at the remote control for the “rudder trim”, as I remember the instruction sheet mentioning something about this, and the little bastard exits stage left and out the window onto the balcony. “Ooooh shit!”
The little helicopter was never designed to fly outside, and it certainly wasn’t designed to hover from 6 floors up a block of flats. As I run to the balcony it gave me one last look and started its rapid descent downwards. I think the roadrunner type “meep meep” was of my own imagination.
Lunging over the plant pots that lined the balcony and desperately pointing the remote control at the gravity aided bit of plastic I managed to at least check the descent to a plummet.
I don’t think the shouted “Sorry!” to the bouffant haired old dear, tottering along the street outside, did much to calm her nerves. I don’t think she appreciated the last desperate act of skill that changed the kamikaze dive bombing into a crash landing into the bush next to her. I also don’t think the liberal sprinkling of potted plant dirt in her face as she looked up was also much appreciated.
My grasp of Spanish is basic, to say the least, but I got the gist of her feelings. “Yeah, yeah, and that’s for the armada” I muttered after her angrily retreating frame, and started the long trek down the stairs to retrieve the errant present.
