Wed
23
Dec
2015

CHRISTMAS 2015

It’s that time again.

Baa humbug

As usual we’ll be celebrating with a refreshing glass of warm water for breakfast, followed by gruel for the main festive meal. The added holly leaves really get us into the holiday mood!

The afternoon is the time for playing games, my favourite being charades where I always carry a sign depicting π and walk across the sitting room as though on a fashion show runway. At this stage of the proceedings Lo, she is a terrible Goddess  has her afternoon nap. I take this opportunity to count our Christmas card.

By teatime, feeling rather full and over-excited, we usually collapse in front of the television and wish the electricity hadn’t been cut-off while we share a gingernut and a double-dunked cup of tea.

Off to bed at 8:30.

Wonderful.

I hope you all have a superb time over the festive season although I very much doubt it’ll be as good as ours.

Fri
11
Dec
2015

HOW THE DODO WAS NAMED.

The dodo wasn’t actually named until the breed was extinguished from the face of the earth.

The last dodo that existed was kept as a pet and had been taught to talk by it’s owners. At Christmas time they used to dress it up to add to the fun when it recited ‘The Owl and the Pussycat’.

DODO

One Christmas, however, the bird had one too many sherries and was sick all over the carpet.

“That bird will have to go!” said Mildred, the lady of the house.

The following day the butcher arrived to kill the animal. As he approached the bird, who wasn’t stupid and knew exactly what was about to happen, keep saying “Do … do … do …. do …” but before he could finish saying “Don’t” the chopper fell and extinctified the species.

The butcher shoved it in a bag and with a cheery, “I’ve killed it. Funny little fella wasn’t he … he kept saying ‘do…do’ as though he’d had enough ”, went to the pub and related the yarn to all his mates. As the story spread it soon became the tale of the Dodo.

Tue
24
Nov
2015

TALKING TO SIRI

A recent conversation with Siri when I was trying to find out where the phrase ‘nooks and crannies’* came from.

“Do you mean rooks and grannies?”

“No – try again”

“Do you mean books and nanny?”

“No – try again”

“Do you mean norks and fannies?”

“No!!! – well – erm – no, better not. Thank you anyway. I’ll try Google.”

“Oh”

*small voice* “Cooks and trannies?”

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*Scottish BTW and been around for ages. I also found a hearty muffin. Perhaps Siri wasn’t that far off after all.

.

Sat
21
Nov
2015

STARS IN MY EYES

I always find a clear night very comforting.

1856_Burritt_-_Huntington_Map_of_the_Constellations_or_Stars_in_October,_November_and_December_-_Geographicus_-_DecNovOct-burritt-1856

All the stars are in just the right places.

The outer edge of the Big Dipper shows where the North star is.

Orion’s belt indicates exactly the position of the Seven Sisters  and the moon is sickled or gibbous or new or full exactly when it should be.

Lovely – I am assured.

.

Fri
20
Nov
2015

COLLECTIVE NOUNS

I’ve been trying to come up with a collective noun for all those annoying people in the media* who like to be known as ‘journalists’.

I have had some success after failing with ‘smug’, an ‘opinion’ and a ‘oh dear my head is stuffed up my own arse’ of journalists.

end_of_world

The end result? – A carrion (or carryon) of journalists.

They’re either picking over the bones of some human disaster or reporting on a skate-boarding duck with one leg and a talent for baking cupcakes, hence the alternative spellings.

*this includes television, papers, radio and all forms of social media

.

Tue
17
Nov
2015

JUST A THOUGHT

Tcup arm (1)

Would the world feel happier with teacup carrying armadillos as the dominant species?

.

Wed
11
Nov
2015

THE DADDY PAPERSURFER MEMORIAL GALLERY

oldtownmuseumhighstreethastings-1444751825

This property is for rent in the Old Town Hastings. The cost? £28000 per annum plus rates and ‘stuff’.

I propose that some rich git gifts it to me so I can open a permanent space to show my genius.

I guarantee that my work will increase in value as soon as I’ve died.

It can’t be long *sniffle and slight cough*.

This is a real investment opportunity.

Mon
9
Nov
2015

KEEPING TRACK

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The track at the bottom of the garden at the Cliff Top Residence is a never ending source of entertainment (see previous post – adult content).

Anyhoo, yesterday the local dustcart, manned by non-locals apparently, drove down the track (the usual truck never goes down the track) and got stuck in the mud. Very stuck. The driver phoned the council depot who sent out a recovery vehicle. This got stuck in the mud. More phone calls were made and then a huge kick-arse 4×4x4×4 with searchlights, tyres the size of Wales and an engine that created it’s own energy crisis arrived and pulled all the idiots out of trouble. There’s mud everywhere now, huge balls of mud. Our strolling activities have been severely curtailed. The people who live at the end of the track can’t drive to their own home. It’s like the Somme.

I’m hoping that the local council take full responsibility and everything is put back to ‘useable’.

*sigh* for the idiots and *hurrah* for the entertainment value.

Thu
5
Nov
2015

FAIRIES AT THE BOTTOM OF THE GARDEN…

… an overheard conversation.

This is an actual account of something that happened yesterday.

I wandered down the garden and became aware that a couple of women were having a chat on the public footpath that we back on to.

I started back for the house and suddenly tuned into their conversation which stopped me in my tracks.

“I was very worried when my menopause started. I felt there was a lump, you know, up there.”

“Oh.”

“I was offered HRT but decided to try doing some pelvic floor exercises.”

“Oh, how does that work?”

“Oh, you just flex those muscles that you use when you pee.”

“Oh.”

“Well they seem to be doing the trick. I feel fantastic now.”

“Oh good.”

“Yer, I feel great. (pause) You know Steve can’t maintain an erection for more than about 30 seconds …?”

“Oh.”

“… well he can’t but he’s very good. He’ll go down on me quite happily. The tonguing technique he uses playing the saxophone comes in VERY useful!”

“Oh! Oh yes, stimulation of the clitoris is very important.”

“I’ve got quite a collection of dildos now as well. It’s fun.”

“Oh.”

“Look, I think it’s going to rain. Come on Mum, we’d better get a move on.”

I didn’t mean to hear all this but I thought if I moved they’d be aware I’d heard their conversation and I didn’t want to embarrass them.

I think I need a little lie-down now.

(This post has no illustration because I’m well aware that the government is following my every move)

Tue
3
Nov
2015

REMEMBER, REMEMBER …..

damp-squid-copy

For the first time in over a decade we’re in England for the beginning of November.

My birthday follows Guy Fawkes Day, a national celebration of individualism celebrated by many.

Although I’m missing the Indian summer of Portugal and the grand people over there I’m quite looking forward to experiencing the traditional celebrations.

The plan is to buy some fish and chips and a terribly exciting box of fireworks (and some sparklers obviously) and enjoy a pleasant evening with ‘She who must be dismayed’ and number 1 son.

(I am very mindful of the time(s) my father dropped a match/es into a/several whole box/es of fireworks during my childhood and shall try and remember to wear old clothes)

((This is plan 38a. Plan 38 was to watch some fireworks in Eastbourne but, apparently, germs have scuppered that. I am nothing if not adaptable.))