Brief encounter...

A few changes to the sidebar. As amazing as it might seem to those that live beyond this grubby city, I'm not the only Hull-based blogger. I've added links to another couple of blogs that I've recently become aware of - Basil Dray's amusing shed and digital image-fixated Treemendous and the fabulously-designed Blue Skies Fade. Long may the pair of them regularly update.

Just to return to the seaside for a 'brief' moment, I confessed to M last night something that had been on my mind after visiting those stinking facilities. When I was in there I realised that I'd forgotten to put on any underwear yesterday morning after dashing out of the shower - opting, instead, to jump straight into my jeans, thinking that I'd be swapping my trousers and would pull on the necessary grundies then. And that, folks, is what the good old-fashioned British seaside is all about: Kiss Me Kwik hats, rock shaped like cocks and men striding confidently without any underbags on.

We caught site of a scarecrow festival at Burton Agnes. What we saw was quite poor, although in defence of Burton Agnessians we didn't stop the car and walk about, preferring to view the villagers' efforts from the comfort of a traffic jam. Burton Agnes is a spooky village at the best of times, never mind when scarecrows have been haphazardly lashed on to fences all over the place, mainly because the stately home there, Burton Agnes Hall (what an appropriate name!), is the permanent residence of the 'grinning skull' of Anne Griffith, a member of the Griffith family who built the place. Having been bludgeoned to death by a couple of nasty blokes one night, Anne's bizarre dying wish was that her head be removed and stashed behind the fancy wooden panneling. They didn't do it - instead burying her intact - but the village became so disturbed after the funeral that Anne's body was eventually exhumed, her head was lopped off and her wish carried out. I remember going on a school trip here when I was about 10 and being unable to sleep for a few weeks afterwards. I don't know if it's still happening but at the time the tour guide pointed out, with a lot of glee, that the 400-year old carpets all had mysterious, unexplained stains on them - damp patches that weren't damp to the touch at all - that kept appearing overnight. Maybe the Griffith family had cats.