Plonker2

I arrived home last night to find a house on my street; not next to it, not adjacent to it, not even in close proximity to it, but on it. Of course it was prudently parked so as not to impede traffic or create a safety hazard, and for that one is grateful. Nevertheless one still hopes it is not a permanent fixture because a house on a street tends over time to be an inconvenience and an eyesore, nor is house-parking a proper and durable function for the street itself, particularly one already traumatised by being called Gilbransen.

But one has to admire the people who put the house there and will I hope eventually remove it. I have long had a love affair (platonic entirely) with house removal experts, and my house on the street brought to mind a Fryday piece I write many years ago when I was living in Hatfields and still writing Ridin’ the Rainbow. I think it worth repeating. I called it plonkers and I have left in the bit about Bush because it gave the story purpose.

I woke Thursday morning to find that during the night someone had plonked a house on the section next door but one from mine. I heard not a thing. That it had been done and done successfully and silently I consider manifest miracles of a miraculous profession.

I am privileged to know a couple of house removal experts reasonably well. What they do never ceases to amaze me for the laid-back "not a problem" attitude they bring to even the most challenging task. I mean, have you ever seen a house, or even larger buildings such as churches and school rooms on the move at night? Do you ever wonder how confident the men, seen dimly only as silhouettes against a myriad of flashing lights, are that they will get their monolithic charges over that hill, under that bridge, around those bends and up that drive?

They are. They manage. Not a problem.

Truckies generally, and house removal experts specifically, are among the most laconic and likeable men and women I have come across. And whilst this may seem a pointless Fryday, I want to use it to pay tribute to them and their skills. They deserve it. And I spend enough Frydays slagging off at people.

And talking of George Bush...

Have you been reading of the furore surrounding Bush's use of a U.S. Navy S-3B Viking jet aircraft to get himself onboard the USS Abraham Lincoln? The cost of that landing, which is the criticism behind the furore, doesn't worry me. What worries me is the reasoning. Apparently Bush wanted to experience what it was like to be up front with the pilot (as apposed to upfront with the populace) when landing a jet on a carrier. He originally wanted to do it in a Hornet, "like they use in Iraq", but the Secret Service vetoed that in favour of the more sedate and safe Viking (they preferred a helicopter).

So, here we have a President, the Commander in Chief, who delves into the American military toy box--the most powerful and lethal in the world--to indulge his whims. I could say that the whole bloody war in Iraq was an indulgence of a whim. But let's stick to the carrier landing and a reminder of a Fryday I wrote on January 31 listing the reasons why George Bush wanted to go to war with Iraq. One of the reasons I highlighted was this:

"He (Bush) gets to fondle all those choice big guns and stuff."

There you go. Another, but entirely different, kind of...plonker.

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