What's Your Widget?

In East Devon we woke up to a very light smattering of snow this morning but the sky has been very snowy all day and the hills surrounding us are white.  I intended taking some photos but somehow I just couldn't drag myself away from the fire!

I am surrounded by sniffing wimps!  Everyone has a cold (well, man flu in The Runner's case!) except me, so I guess I'll be going out for sudafed and paracetamol tomorrow!

The Runner has a new phone (LG GM360 if that means anything to you).  Now, I may have mentioned before how technologically phobic he is.  So you can imagine all the questions we have had this afternoon whilst he was trying to work out how to use a modern touch screen phone.  'What's a status bar?'  'What are SN updates?'

Scary has helped him as much as she can bear with a teenager's short attention span.  We did both laugh out loud when he said he had an 'idle widget'!

We have put in his old sim card so that he doesn't have to change his number but this means that he cannot access some of his old pictures and files.  The one he is most concerned about, however, is a recording of Terry Wogan reading out his poem on Radio Two before he gave up the Breakfast Show.

You can tell we are a certain age, can't you?

So long, Tel, and thanks for all the laughs!

This post is just a loving tribute to Sir Terry Wogan, who retires today from the Breakfast Show on Radio 2, so apologies to you non-Togs out there; you won't know what I'm talking about!

Marathon Runner has written a poem:

The Jabberingwoge

Twas brillig and the slithy Togs
Did gripe and grumble with the Woge
All mimsy was the Boggymarsh
And the morning rants outgrabe

Beware the Jabberingwoge my Son
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch
Beware the Grubgrub bird, and shun
The frumious Barrelansnatch

He ate his vittles, fork in hand
Long time the Clarkish pies he sought
So rested he by the Blanketyblank Tree
And stood awhile in Splot

And, as in toggish thought he stood
The Jabberingwoge, with eyes all red
Came wittering through the early morn
And burbled all the same

One, two, one, two, rehearsing through and through
This dashing blade had a snorker-snack
He left one for Deadly and with his head
He carried on guzzling back

And hast they slain the Jabberingwoge?
Not bleedin' likely, I'm an Irish boy!
I'm on a Sunday! Callooh! Callay!
He chortled in his joy

Twas brillig and the Togs all love
Old Boggy, Deadly and the Woge
Dear Franny and the girl from Splot
And the morns won't sound the same







Sir Tel read it out on Wednesday and said it was "wonderful".

There's no living with Marathon Runner now!

Good Luck Sir Terry! How I will miss you!