I’m getting  frustrated trying to transfer  email contacts and messages from one computer with Outlook Express to another with Windows Mail on Vista. It is more irritating considering that Microsoft run both packages. They refuse to put Outlook as standard on their new computers.

All this takes some shine off having a brand new laptop bought  because the previous one started  going wonky and wouldn’t play PC games. I don’t mean PC in the way that Carol Thatcher does.  The Games I play on my PC are in no way PC .  Call of Duty and  the Halo series  are primarily concerned with, how can I put this,  killing people. It’s  something I only do  in my spare time.

 I downed tools or should I say  closed Task Manager because downing tools no longer means putting down your hammer but pressing exit application.  Who’d have thought there’d be a whole trade in memory   on miniature protrusion’s  called  sticks.  So  I closed windows and The Journalist and I stepped out for a meal at a lovely couple’s house in Richmond near  a  Palace where one of the old queens passed away.  

But on  following  information peevishly  tossed to us by a broken down  British Rail  we arrived in Richmond late.  We speed-walked towards the house as a gang of parrots swirled up the street  and away.  A warmer greeting we couldn’t have had.  Our hosts planned it before hand   “and the parrots will swoop at 1.30pm…” .     As their front  door swings open warmer hosts you couldn’t meet.   

Lunch  was sumptuous  and  desert ,  a perfect chocolate tart with plump  fruit and scurrilous cream. It was the final love bomb on our rushing minds.  Conversation found its natural pace as a  slow  warm tingle from  the entire food sensation  trickled through my body like honey in a hive. I don't know when I started to want to sleep after eating a great meal but…    “I think” said one of our hosts  “we should go for a walk”.  And in a flush of breeze we, the five of us,  were outside in Richmond Park. What a treat.

I stood in awe  as a herd of Red and Fallow Deer curled over the top of the hill towards us then stopped, poised,  like ballet dancers I thought. One of them twitched  and then they were off again swooping away from us, the drumming  of  feet beating the sound of a thousand years passed.  I had been transported to Jurassic park.  

As we left the park in our hosts car a large yellow  sign  in harsh black lettering “ Park closed tonight for CULL.”     I imagine  a child  saying “Daddy daddy what’s a CULL?”. The father and mother freeze “It’s what Scottish people do dear when they have to CALL… the deer, only they say  ‘CULL the deer  because they have a different accent dear”.  The child thinks about this for a minute  “but daddy daddy why do they call the dear then”.  Another silent  “now be quiet Norris”.