tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30533405982079831572024-03-21T09:31:15.429-07:00Bryan Jones' Diary - the ramblings of a menopausal manIs there a male menopause? As a man in his mid-50s, I have recently become aware of getting older. Increasing age has had a curious effect on my psyche. I am noticing, on an almost daily basis, that I am thinking, feeling and behaving in ways that are starkly different from my youth and earlier adulthood. I will share these experiences on this blog and hope others will join me in describing their own age-related quirks and oddities. I can't be the only one at this "funny age", can I??
Bryan Joneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18193232823492134184noreply@blogger.comBlogger91125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3053340598207983157.post-47373388916338427212018-09-21T07:16:00.000-07:002018-09-21T07:16:08.273-07:00The zipper that wouldn't budge<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2rfwmuvLAmE2StqRyzVI7BT4_70BtD0VLQo0bxcuQv4NLxzVe9wJ5ShHQtZqwgWdaSkSc7-4_daDIhb0g1iNypJ8xYNI6acTN_d3XeG_obHlTi9YCXLucLoHJ98Ao4X3U_cEFDlpGAuM/s1600/Courtesy+of+hin255+at+FreeDigitalPhotos.net2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="265" data-original-width="400" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2rfwmuvLAmE2StqRyzVI7BT4_70BtD0VLQo0bxcuQv4NLxzVe9wJ5ShHQtZqwgWdaSkSc7-4_daDIhb0g1iNypJ8xYNI6acTN_d3XeG_obHlTi9YCXLucLoHJ98Ao4X3U_cEFDlpGAuM/s320/Courtesy+of+hin255+at+FreeDigitalPhotos.net2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Two weeks ago, Mrs Jones and I attended the evening wedding
reception of a friend’s daughter. Such events always provide a valid excuse for
dusting off the glad rags and slipping into our favourite outfits. On this
occasion I opted for my buttock-hugging royal-blue slacks, providing firm hold
around the nether regions and an arse shape that screams ‘squeeze me’ to the
ladies in the vicinity.</div>
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‘Not bad at all for someone nearly 60’, I muttered as I
admired myself in the bedroom mirror prior to departure for the venue, an
upmarket country hotel.</div>
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Two hours into the event, and four pints of cask ale
imbibed, I needed my first pee of the evening. The toilets were opulent, all
tiles and gleaming porcelain, the pedestal basins adorned with a variety of
scented hand washes. I was the only one there, unexpected given that the
occasion was well attended. I approached the urinal and pulled on my zipper; it
wouldn’t budge. I tugged harder, several times, but it refused to go south. <span style="margin: 0px;"> </span></div>
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Standing there, shoulders hunched, I inspected my groin in
search of the source of the obstruction. Drops of perspiration appeared on my
forehead. As tends to happen in such situations, the awareness of being denied
the opportunity to urinate was making the desire to do so more urgent. In
anticipation of the embarrassment should someone enter the toilet, I moved into
a cubicle so as to permit a more thorough intra-trouser exploration. With one
hand on my zipper, and the other down the front of a (very tight) waistband, I
pulled and yanked in a to-and-fro motion, an action that might have been open
to misinterpretation if<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>observed by a
third party. But all to no avail; the zipper refused to move, as if welded
shut.</div>
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The fumblings of the hand down the front of my trousers –
already growing numb through the lack of blood supply – had identified the
problem: a flap of material near the fly hole that had entwined with the zipper
along its full length. With increasing desperation, I reviewed my options.
Perhaps I should call Mrs Jones on her cell phone, requesting she comes to my
aid armed with a pair of scissors? (An option I quickly dismissed, on the basis
that she would only piss herself – excuse the pun – laughing). </div>
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As my desperation escalated, catastrophic images pushed into
my mind:</div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Wedding guests
pointing at my gusset and shrieking in disgust as my trousers morph into
two-tone, a deeper shade of navy extending in waves from the abdomen.</i></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Firemen armed with
heavy-duty cutting equipment rushing into the hotel to free me from my contour-hugging
slacks. </i></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Lying prostrate on the
table among the Singer sowing machines at the local textile factory as the
seamstresses debate how best to unpick the stitching. </i>(Or maybe that was a
fantasy rather than a catastrophic image?)</div>
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Mercifully, after a 10-minutes ordeal – one that felt like
an age - my repeated tugging released the zipper and I was able to relieve
myself in the appropriate receptacle. (Is there any human experience more
pleasurable than emptying a full bladder after a period of inhibition?). </div>
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And
the next time I wear my favourite blue slacks, I will replace vanity with
practicality, focusing on that rogue flap of material under the zip rather than
the shape of my arse.<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> </i></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Image courtesy of
hin255 at FreeDigitalPhotos.net</i></div>
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<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike>Bryan Joneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18193232823492134184noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3053340598207983157.post-36182969695901421932018-08-09T05:31:00.000-07:002018-08-13T12:07:58.418-07:00Spewing and sprawling on the Ionian Sea<u></u><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLq3x7j_G1DB6ZXJKCzxiKxtGZtE2XI_NK5CXUTIws6Z2-PMD7BZ0TEQgoCmScrjLS3SzbOXXrrQWmtXKEPfWvHsr3aRhMKRgGqIDdOvpQ2ZUvxWybss-O2xMzB0EPUWQcvMaqN8G2dyU/s1600/Image+courtesy+of+bplanet+at+FreeDigitalPhotos.net.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="266" data-original-width="400" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLq3x7j_G1DB6ZXJKCzxiKxtGZtE2XI_NK5CXUTIws6Z2-PMD7BZ0TEQgoCmScrjLS3SzbOXXrrQWmtXKEPfWvHsr3aRhMKRgGqIDdOvpQ2ZUvxWybss-O2xMzB0EPUWQcvMaqN8G2dyU/s320/Image+courtesy+of+bplanet+at+FreeDigitalPhotos.net.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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When the captain of a boat sits on his own in the corner,
hands over his face, his bowed head shaking from side to side, it is reasonable
to suspect that all is not well.</div>
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Such was the scene Mrs Jones and I witnessed while on a boat
returning to the Greek island of Corfu after a day trip to Albania. We were
ensconced, below deck, in the covered area of a pleasure cruiser along with
around one hundred other tourists. The Ionian Sea had been choppy since we left
the port. Ten minutes into the voyage, and the boat was swinging from side to
side like a giant hammock in a gale. At first it was amusing to watch:
unoccupied chairs and tables sliding around like a scene from Poltergeist;
young men zig-zagging to the toilet, grasping the hands of seated fellow
passengers to steady themselves; and an Italian beauty, wearing more makeup
than clothing, sliding to the floor and unable to get back up, her long legs
akimbo. </div>
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From the outset I’d been making eye-contact with an obese,
disabled Romanian gentleman sitting directly opposite, leaning forward on his
walking stick, our mutual nods and smiles showing smug acceptance of the
situation. Two old sea dogs like us were not going to be phased by a bit of
choppy water. White foam rendering the windows opaque, as if we were all
entombed inside an iceberg, didn’t worry us. Real men, made of sturdy stuff,
while lesser mortals floundered. Suddenly, the boat lurched violently to
starboard catapulting the 17-stone Romanian towards me; he landed at my feet
with a thud.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span></div>
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I, and others, feigned to stand up to help him – if we had,
the pendulous swing of the boat would have put us all on our arses – but the
prostrate fella oozed calmness and rationality. </div>
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‘I’m fine on the floor,’ he said, palm of his hand raised
with the authority of a traffic policeman. ‘It’s the best place for me’.</div>
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And then the vomiting started. The kids who’d been
screeching and running amok on the outward journey were now sat in a line,
motionless, their faces displaying various shades of green and yellow. In
response to their communal retching, a number of plastic shopping bags had appeared
and were now being used to catch the dribbling puke. Some adults with sea
sickness – including the two holiday reps – had braved the wobbly walk to the
outside deck and were now vomiting over the side, their white-knuckled hands
clinging to the rails.</div>
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A young man who had been laid horizontal across three seats,
apparently sleeping, roused himself. He sat upright, appearing confused. In an
instant, perplexity was replaced by horror and he sprung to his feet and made a
dash for the toilet, his cheeks puffed out like an inflatable toad. He
stumbled, falling in my direction, and for a second we were almost
nose-to-nose. I resigned myself to being peppered with a semi-digested Albanian
buffet, but – and give the lad his due – like a skilled fighter-plane pilot, he
pulled off a last-minute swerve to the right and vomited over my shoulder into
a recess behind me. <span style="margin: 0px;"> </span></div>
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Mrs Jones and I had remained seated throughout, absorbing the
chaos around us: upturned tables and chairs randomly sliding back and forth; a
chorus of retching and gurgling; white froth slapping against the windows as if
the sea had morphed into a fizzy drink; and a rotund east European lying on his
side at our feet, his chin resting on his hand, nonchalantly perusing the
mayhem. As the boat continued to veer like a giant swing at a funfair, we had
focused on the behaviour of our Greek captain. Oblivious to the stumbling,
vomiting passengers, the skipper continually ventured outside onto the exposed
deck – the open door letting in a howling gale – returning wet and windswept,
only to then repeat the action. </div>
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But now the captain had sat down in our midst. I – and I
suspect many others – looked to him for reassurance that everything was under
control. But we couldn’t see his features: he was slumped, hands over his face,
shaking his head from side to side. There was only one conclusion to be drawn:
the boat was sinking.</div>
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Mrs Jones began texting a farewell message to the kids.</div>
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I considered ringing my son to remind him of the cabinet
drawer where our will was kept.</div>
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My hand started to grope under my seat in search of a life
jacket. </div>
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And then the horizontal Romanian calmly asked the question
we all wanted answered. ‘Captain, is there something wrong with the boat?’</div>
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As if wakened from a trance, the captain lifted his head and
looked around, perplexed, trying to locate the source of the voice that had
intruded into his inner world. It took a few seconds to notice the fixed stare
from hulk on the floor and realise this was his interrogator.</div>
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‘No, no, the ship’s fine,’ he said. ‘I’ve just banged my
head on one of the rails outside’. <span style="margin: 0px;"> </span></div>
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Ten minutes later, the sea calmed and we arrived safely in
Corfu town. </div>
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‘That was horrendous,’ said Mrs Jones as we got off the
boat. ‘I thought we were doomed’.</div>
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‘Just a bit of choppy sea,’ I said. ‘I don’t know what all
the fuss was about.’ <span style="margin: 0px;"> </span><span style="margin: 0px;"> </span><span style="margin: 0px;"> </span><span style="margin: 0px;"> </span><span style="margin: 0px;"> </span></div>
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<i>Image courtesy of bplanet et FreeDigitalPhotos.net</i></div>
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<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike>Bryan Joneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18193232823492134184noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3053340598207983157.post-58762906628403442562018-05-31T06:49:00.000-07:002018-05-31T06:49:05.087-07:00Five things that make me angry
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhRrWfgE8edrHl7Y-H08XK49sXhHgqshmOfM6RR7oS-1UjlufC1Zl7xrt8_8xnN1LufAbaEULTOMcfNwtVZ-WCswzL9pkRXAbayw99BOWR4qeNT22vCKY03zFp8TRgd9SNDZxkqHPbPRU/s1600/Courtesy+of+imagerymajestic+at+FreeDigitalPhotos.net+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="278" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhRrWfgE8edrHl7Y-H08XK49sXhHgqshmOfM6RR7oS-1UjlufC1Zl7xrt8_8xnN1LufAbaEULTOMcfNwtVZ-WCswzL9pkRXAbayw99BOWR4qeNT22vCKY03zFp8TRgd9SNDZxkqHPbPRU/s320/Courtesy+of+imagerymajestic+at+FreeDigitalPhotos.net+2.jpg" width="222" /></a></div>
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I like to see myself as an easy-going fella who can smile at
adversity and not take life too seriously. Yet, over the last few weeks, a
number of situations succeeded in triggering annoyance, even rage. Here are
five of my most snarl-inducing experiences.</div>
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<li style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin: 0px;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Telephone helplines where the person reads from a script</b></li>
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Information technology is awesome, enabling us to access the
answer to any question at the touch of a button. In contrast, when it goes
awry, it can cause such teeth-grinding frustration. Recently, my Internet connection
ceased to function so I rang the provider to speak to an expert technician. The
subsequent telephone conversation went something like this:</div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">ME: Hi there. I
can’t get an Internet connection. I’ve checked that the cables are all plugged
in correctly and I’ve tried switching my router on and off, but I still can’t
get online. So could I talk to a technician please?</i></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">HELPER: OK –
what I’d like you to do first is to switch your router off, leave it for 10
seconds, and then switch it back …</i></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">ME: I’ve already
done that – can you just put me through to one of your techy people</i></div>
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*Pause*</div>
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*Shuffling of papers*</div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">HELPER: Would
you now check the cable leading from your computer to the router and ensure
that it … </i></div>
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Give me strength! If I was
more compassionate I’d recognise what a shit, poorly-paid job it is working in
a call centre but, at this particular moment, I want to put my fist through the
telephone line and punch him in the face.</div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="margin: 0px;">2.<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt "Times New Roman"; margin: 0px;"> </span></span></b><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">People who believe they are transparent</b></div>
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There’s a football match I’m
eager to watch so I’ve arrived at the pub early in order to obtain a seat with
a full view of the television. I’m enjoying my third pint of cask ale when the
game starts, and then … some bloke stands directly in my eye line, totally
obscuring my view. I wait a while, expecting him to soon realise the error of
his ways, but no, he remains oblivious. </div>
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After a few seconds of
staring at the fella’s back, I shout, ‘Excuse me; could you move to the side so
I can see the TV.’</div>
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He turns and looks at me with
disdain – like he’s just seen me shit on his dining table – and, grudgingly,
moves a few millimetres. If I wasn’t such a wimp – and he wasn’t four-foot wide
with neck scarring and tattoos – I’d have stood up and confronted him. </div>
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Instead, I seethe in silence,
muttering into the froth of my beer. <span style="margin: 0px;"> </span><span style="margin: 0px;"> </span></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="margin: 0px;">3.<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt "Times New Roman"; margin: 0px;"> </span></span></b><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Pedestrians who don’t give way</b></div>
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I’m walking along the
pavement/sidewalk with Mrs Jones when I notice three people, side-by-side,
walking towards me. While my lady and I make some effort to make space for
them, by turning to the side or adopting a one-in-front-of-the-other formation,
they march on, three abreast, brushing us away from their flight path. Did they
not notice us? Did they see us but thought, ‘Fuck you – we’re much more
important?’ </div>
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I vow that when I next meet
such blinkered on comers I will stand my ground and shoulder them into the
oncoming traffic (that is as long as they are not four-foot wide with neck
scars and tattoos). </div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="margin: 0px;">4.<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt "Times New Roman"; margin: 0px;"> </span></span></b><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">When restaurants run out of your favoured
menu choice</b></div>
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Following a detailed inspection
of the restaurant’s menu, enticingly displayed in the front window, we enter
and are shown to our seats. While the internal hunger monster forces saliva out
of the corner of our mouths, we eagerly order our favoured dishes, only for the
waiter to say,</div>
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‘Sorry sir, but we’ve run out
of the goat’s cheese starter and the salmon main.’</div>
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Perhaps because he’s noticed
my disappointment, he adds, ‘We’ve been really busy today.’</div>
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OK, so it’s the previous
customers at fault for woofing down my cheese and salmon; the no-shows in the
menu have nothing at all to do with the incompetence of the restaurant manager
and in-house chef. After all, how could they know that demand might increase a
bit on a bank holiday?<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="margin: 0px;">5.<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt "Times New Roman"; margin: 0px;"> </span></span></b><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">The blanket coverage of the royal wedding</b>
<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span><span style="margin: 0px;"> </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
I have zero interest in the royal family. All that pomp,
tradition and elitism leave me cold. So when Prince Harry recently hooked up
with some wench called Megan Markle this royal wedding held the same allure for
me as hearing about the marriage of a couple of strangers – that is, no
interest at all.</div>
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<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
Nonetheless, in the days leading up to the ceremony I was
forced to endure blanket coverage by the media. Newspapers devoted page after
page to the ‘happy event’. The TV news channels dedicated hour after hour to
such riveting stuff as who would walk Meg down the aisle, what her wedding
dress would look like, and whether Harry would opt for a pre-ceremony bowel
movement or wait until after the service – OK, I made that last one up; but now
I think about it, his colonic activity would have been more interesting than
all the other guff. <span style="margin: 0px;"> </span></div>
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<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
On the wedding day itself, Mrs Jones and I decided to escape
the frenzy and hysteria by taking a very long walk in the hills that overlook
our town. The solitude of the countryside was bliss. But when we opted for a
pit stop in a rural village tavern, over the top of the bar was a small TV
showing – you’ve guessed it – the royal wedding. Behind us, a group of
middle-aged ladies excitedly discussed the wonders of the current queen, princes and princesses. Give me
strength!</div>
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The sooner the UK morphs into a republic the better. </div>
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<i>Photo courtesy of imagerymajestic at FreeDigitalPhotos.net </i></div>
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<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike>Bryan Joneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18193232823492134184noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3053340598207983157.post-30799600998411712992018-04-17T04:21:00.002-07:002018-04-17T05:59:23.909-07:00How to never write a novel<br />
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<u><br /></u></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilTIyMlEIw8UsBbgaI38qSWo5Wls8ngSC9iLZwWVaj7c7GqRLAf9PLv1iPdQz0nkn7UWSjAo9bjNzGIMoY38kWHXaFSeTTjz6teYWWPo1dyMkKwMudit1U3zV7V3hu7J7610NpiDuDjN8/s1600/Courtesy+of+Freeimages+.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1065" data-original-width="1600" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilTIyMlEIw8UsBbgaI38qSWo5Wls8ngSC9iLZwWVaj7c7GqRLAf9PLv1iPdQz0nkn7UWSjAo9bjNzGIMoY38kWHXaFSeTTjz6teYWWPo1dyMkKwMudit1U3zV7V3hu7J7610NpiDuDjN8/s320/Courtesy+of+Freeimages+.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<br />
It is often said that each of us carries a book inside us. I
don’t mean an actual oblong chunk of paper swishing around in one’s intestine,
but a story – somewhere in the multi-corridors of the mind - that is clamouring
to get out and is sufficiently interesting to comprise a saleable novel. Sadly,
as I approach my 60<sup>th</sup> birthday, I’ve yet to find my potential
blockbuster.</div>
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Instead of producing the next Harry Potter bestseller, what
I have discovered is that I’m an expert in procrastination. When I sit down
with the intention of crafting my masterpiece, I soon manage to distract myself
onto another activity. It seems I have developed a deft range of strategies to
impede and sabotage the creative writing process. <span style="margin: 0px;"> </span></div>
<br />
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<br /></div>
<br />
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Here are my wonderfully effective ways of putting off until
tomorrow what you should be doing today:</div>
<br />
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<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
1<sup>st</sup>-level strategies: (before sitting down in
front of the laptop)</div>
<br />
<ol start="1" style="margin-top: 0cm;" type="1">
<li style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin: 0px;">Convince myself I need to
use the toilet – it is amazing how paying attention to the bladder or
bowel can evoke activity therein.</li>
<li style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin: 0px;">Long for the smell of
cocoa beans until there is no choice but to go and make myself another cup
of coffee.</li>
<li style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin: 0px;">Prod the flesh above my
trouser belt to the point where vanity kicks in and I decide to go and
engage in 30 minutes of high-intensity exercise on my static bike.</li>
<li style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin: 0px;">Wonder if Mrs Jones is in
the mood for love.</li>
</ol>
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<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
2<sup>nd</sup>-level strategies: (once I’ve opened the file
titled ‘novel’)</div>
<br />
<ol start="1" style="margin-top: 0cm;" type="1">
<li style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin: 0px;">Decide that much more
preparation is required before starting my story.</li>
<li style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin: 0px;">Opt to research the
history of World War II on the basis that the father of one of my
peripheral characters fought in it.</li>
<li style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin: 0px;">Reread my multiple
‘how-to-write-a-novel’ books.</li>
<li style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin: 0px;">Succumb to the pull of ‘Naughty
America’.</li>
</ol>
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<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
3<sup>rd </sup>– level strategies (Once I’ve started
writing)</div>
<br />
<ol start="1" style="margin-top: 0cm;" type="1">
<li style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin: 0px;">Agonise over the third
word of the first sentence and dedicate the next half-hour to flicking
through a Thesaurus.</li>
<li style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin: 0px;">Re-read book on
punctuation to decide whether to use a semicolon, dash or comma in 1<sup>st</sup>
sentence.</li>
<li style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin: 0px;">Carry out a word count
every 60 seconds.</li>
<li style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin: 0px;">Succumb to the pull of
‘Naughty America’. <span style="margin: 0px;"> </span><span style="margin: 0px;"> </span></li>
</ol>
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<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
4<sup>th</sup> – level strategies (Once I’ve written a
couple of pages)</div>
<br />
<ol start="1" style="margin-top: 0cm;" type="1">
<li style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin: 0px;">Imagine a potential reader
peeing her pants with laughter at what I’ve written (despite my novel
being a crime/thriller).</li>
<li style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin: 0px;">Decide it’s crap, and
press ‘delete’ button.</li>
<li style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin: 0px;">Reflect on the possibility
that the fact that I loathe anything written by Ernest Hemmingway might
indicate I’m clueless as to what makes a decent writer.</li>
<li style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin: 0px;">Google how to access treatment for my sex addiction.</li>
</ol>
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<span style="margin: 0px;"></span><br />
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<span style="margin: 0px;"> Photo courtesy of <a href="https://www.freeimages.co.uk/">freeimages.co.uk </a></span></div>
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<a href="https://www.freeimages.co.uk/">https://www.freeimages.co.uk/</a></div>
Bryan Joneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18193232823492134184noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3053340598207983157.post-11803210051762332842018-02-22T01:49:00.000-08:002018-02-22T01:49:22.446-08:00The things my elderly mother shouts<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSh1HxFH4YAXOYQADgZhl_196tcPtvbouSQKItLxYT2wzMYNxlkpd6r537NHsqm7HYciLvbxIx-f9q10cuNY8POzGv6SZ78oQPGx2Q0bE33fWDD7QfUkdsbbj_tnmh04_THn3MNfUs9WA/s1600/Courtesy+of+iosphere+at+FreeDigitalPhotos.net2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="400" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSh1HxFH4YAXOYQADgZhl_196tcPtvbouSQKItLxYT2wzMYNxlkpd6r537NHsqm7HYciLvbxIx-f9q10cuNY8POzGv6SZ78oQPGx2Q0bE33fWDD7QfUkdsbbj_tnmh04_THn3MNfUs9WA/s320/Courtesy+of+iosphere+at+FreeDigitalPhotos.net2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><b>My father had a fall last week and I accompanied him to the
hospital, along with my 87-year-old mother. The old fella spent 4 hours in the
resuscitation area of the Accident and Emergency Department - part of it in a
cubicle, most of the time on a trolley in the corridor. My mother and I sat
with him, perched on plastic chairs. Contrary to what you might expect, this
extended period of waiting was rarely dull.</b></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><b>My lovely mum is hard of hearing and this long-term
affliction, together with some short-term-memory loss, can cause confusion and
disorientation. When she speaks she tend to shout, presumably as a consequence
of her deafness. Also, as she gets older, she seems to be less inhibited about
sharing what’s on her mind. While sitting in the crowded Accident and Emergency
Department - surrounded by bleeping equipment, suction machines and the night’s
ill and bleeding casualties - she announced the following:</b></span></div>
<b></b><br />
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<b></b><br /></div>
<b></b><br />
<ol start="1" style="margin-top: 0cm;" type="1">
<li style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="color: black;"><b>‘LOOKING AT ALL THESE POOR
SODS, WE DON’T KNOW HOW LUCKY WE ARE.’</b></span></li>
</ol>
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<b></b><br /></div>
<b></b><br />
<ol start="2" style="margin-top: 0cm;" type="1">
<li style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="color: black;"><b>(</b></span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: black;"><b>When an obese nurse walked past and smiled in our direction) </b></span></i><span style="color: black;"><b>‘GOODNESS,
SHE’S A FAT LASS’.</b></span></li>
</ol>
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<b></b><br /></div>
<b></b><br />
<ol start="3" style="margin-top: 0cm;" type="1">
<li style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="color: black;"><b>‘I HOPE THESE CLICKS AND
SQUISHING NOISES AREN’T GOING TO CONTINUE ALL NIGHT.’</b></span></li>
</ol>
<b></b><br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 0px 48px;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: black;"><b>I inform her that these noises are from emergency equipment that is
keeping people alive. On hearing this, she expresses remorse, and says the Holy
Trinity while making the sign of the cross. </b></span></i></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: black;"><b>(Thirty seconds later) </b></span><span style="margin: 0px;"><span style="color: black;"><b> </b></span></span></i><span style="color: black;"><b>‘THIS
RACKET ISN’T GOING TO GO ON ALL NIGHT, IS IT? WHY DON'T THEY JUST TURN THEM OFF?’</b></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 0px 48px;">
<span style="color: black;"><b></b><br /></span></div>
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<b></b><br /></div>
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<ol start="4" style="margin-top: 0cm;" type="1">
<li style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="color: black;"><b>‘SORRY, I’VE JUST TRUMPED –
IT DOESN’T SMELL THOUGH’</b></span></li>
</ol>
<div style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; margin: 0px;">
<span style="color: black;"><b><br /></b></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><b><br /></b></span></div>
<div>
<span style="color: black;"><b>5. (On being told that dad hasn't broken any bones and we can all go home, mum stands over dad and says) PICK YOUR FEET UP NEXT TIME, FAT ARSE - WE'RE NOT BRINGING YOU HERE AGAIN'.</b></span></div>
<div style="font-family: "times new roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; margin: 0px;">
<span style="color: black;"><b> </b></span></div>
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<b></b><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike><i><span style="color: black;">Photo courtesy of PaulR at FreeDigitalPhotos.net</span></i>Bryan Joneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18193232823492134184noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3053340598207983157.post-71852767851138078992018-01-19T02:43:00.000-08:002018-01-19T02:46:39.333-08:00Life's too short<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVvhq4WF8OO90YGxNgE5TVo-r-r71ARas6KxBP_ZTnl4g6UumjkfSYSESmNWEJb5DEAOiILMNDLEgnG7qHRMAQETOaGnV4psQmBheF3N72zGqnjkFY4X-k9QR8t1qGH4Ky8gc6Pz5wOmo/s1600/Courtesy+of+samandale+-+FreeDigitalPhotos.net.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="336" data-original-width="339" height="317" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVvhq4WF8OO90YGxNgE5TVo-r-r71ARas6KxBP_ZTnl4g6UumjkfSYSESmNWEJb5DEAOiILMNDLEgnG7qHRMAQETOaGnV4psQmBheF3N72zGqnjkFY4X-k9QR8t1qGH4Ky8gc6Pz5wOmo/s320/Courtesy+of+samandale+-+FreeDigitalPhotos.net.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<div style="margin: 0px;">
On the tenth day of a fortnight’s holiday in Tenerife, Mrs
Jones and I were flagging. A combination of Spanish sunshine, overeating, hefty
consumption of San Miguel lager and late-night revelling at the local Irish bars
had left us feeling weary. At 58 years old, we don’t possess the same level of
stamina as in our young adulthood. We decided on an early night – not with any
intention of rumpy-pumpy, as we were too tired for that nonsense; a sustained
30-seconds of pelvic thrusting was way beyond our capabilities. The (smallish) rational
parts of our brains insisted that less alcohol and more sleep would re-energise
us for the remainder of the holiday.</div>
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<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
So at 8.30pm, rather than bouncing into town, we opted for a
quiet drink in our hotel bar as a prelude to bed. Perched on a leather settee,
we observed our spacious and opulent surroundings: sparkling chandeliers,
sturdy-oak coffee tables, mirrored walls, a bar displaying endless varieties of
liqueurs and spirits, and bow-tied waitresses - in white blouses and black
skirts - attentive to the needs of their guests. And oh so quiet. People spoke
in whispers, as if mindful to not corrupt the sumptuous surrounds. The most
noticeable sound was the clicking of stiletto on tile, as a waitress scurried
to replenish a glass. Mrs Jones and I sat in silence, sipping our lager
nightcaps; the heaviness of our lethargy made speech feel too much of an
effort.</div>
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But then something remarkable happened.</div>
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Very gradually, we grew aware of another noise. An
intermittent growling could be heard behind us, and we turned to discover the
source. A bald headed man, maybe in his 70s, was slumped in his armchair, a
half-full glass of stout on the table in front of him. His eyes were closed,
his hands clasped in his lap. At the same table were three vacant chairs, the
empty glasses in front of them suggesting recent occupation by his companions
prior to their desertion. </div>
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<div style="margin: 0px;">
We watched him closely. He’d clearly been there a while, as
evidenced by the viscous spittle forming at the corners of his mouth. Each
inward breath evoked a rasping snore followed by a silent pause, this soundless
phase extending over several seconds, sufficiently long to evoke our concerns
that the old fella may have expired. It was clear that the waitresses’ thoughts
were along similar lines, each covertly monitoring him for signs of life as
they cleared neighbouring tables. When the outbreath arrived, we could detect a
collective sense of relief in the room. <span style="margin: 0px;"> </span></div>
<br />
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<br /></div>
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<div style="margin: 0px;">
I squeezed Mrs Jones’ hand and we turned to face each other.
It seemed our minds were reaching a common conclusion.</div>
<br />
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<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
‘Life’s too short,’ I said.</div>
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***</div>
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Four hours later we could both be found in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Paddy’s Bar, </i>each holding a pint of
Caffrey’s, screeching a tuneless rendition of ‘The Wild Rover’. <span style="margin: 0px;"> </span></div>
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<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="margin: 0px;"><i>Photograph courtesy of Samandale at FreeDigitalPhotos.net</i> </span><span style="margin: 0px;"> </span><span style="margin: 0px;"> </span><span style="margin: 0px;"> </span></div>
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<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span><span style="margin: 0px;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="margin: 0px;"> </span><span style="margin: 0px;"> </span><span style="margin: 0px;"> </span><span style="margin: 0px;"> </span><span style="margin: 0px;"> </span><span style="margin: 0px;"> </span><span style="margin: 0px;"> </span></i></div>
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<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike>Bryan Joneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18193232823492134184noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3053340598207983157.post-12230775635128740902017-12-11T06:22:00.000-08:002017-12-11T06:22:49.215-08:00The joys of flying economy class
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7bEXO-f3hv-FXK9ua2GCE0ZNcNck_oyia4FUTgNnKPvDI357_7NufNAJSnHu_Njzd7hOntxpESmpbAMA1GhnOP7LU4TBumhC2WW8Oqrg2hK_2BxVt4XtiRwY6slBixVdXwQXYjXDSuQE/s1600/Courtesy+of+satit_srihin+at+FreeDigitalPhotos.net.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="261" data-original-width="400" height="208" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7bEXO-f3hv-FXK9ua2GCE0ZNcNck_oyia4FUTgNnKPvDI357_7NufNAJSnHu_Njzd7hOntxpESmpbAMA1GhnOP7LU4TBumhC2WW8Oqrg2hK_2BxVt4XtiRwY6slBixVdXwQXYjXDSuQE/s320/Courtesy+of+satit_srihin+at+FreeDigitalPhotos.net.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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'Fourteen hours cooped up on a plane sounds like hell,’ said
Mrs Jones.</div>
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‘I’m sure the time will fly past,’ I said, resorting to tame
jokes as a way of getting into the holiday spirit.</div>
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We were boarding our flight from the UK to Singapore. I’m
not a rich man; our allocated positions were in the economy section in the rear
of the aircraft. As the only access point was at the front of the plane, we
endured the passage through business class - the expanse of space sufficient to
trigger agoraphobia - before reaching our seats, thirty rows of nine,
resembling a tightly packed battalion advancing towards the enemy.</div>
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After the token welcome by the china-doll air hostesses –
all lipstick-crusted smiles and pert rumps – we sat and observed our fellow
travellers. Our attentions were drawn to a kerfuffle from six rows in front of
us. A middle-aged lady was kicking off because there was no room to store her
hand luggage in the locker above her seat; the hostess had placed it a couple of
rows down. I leaned in to Mrs Jones and whispered, </div>
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‘Crikey! Is she worried a sneak thief will snatch and run
while we’re at 40,000 feet?’</div>
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Last to take their seats were a Chinese couple, each wearing
a surgical mask over their mouths and noses. They looked like they had just
been dragged out of the operating theatre, in the midst of removing a gall bladder, but I was reassured to note that
neither was wielding a scalpel. Is it worth looking like an utter dipstick in
an effort to filter out a few contaminants?</div>
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Two hours after take-off, and I’m still struggling to
activate my touch-screen entertainment located on the back of the seat in front
of me. The damn thing seems defective. As I repeatedly prod the glass monitor,
the obese bloke across the aisle decides to stand – to aid his circulation, no
doubt – and thrusts his lardy arse in my face. My nostrils detect the lurid
combination of blue cheese and old sweat. I consider asking the Chinese fella
if I can borrow his mask.</div>
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Bored, without any film to watch, I try to sleep. Each time
I feel I might be slipping into the land of nod, my journey is halted by a
toddler shrieking two rows behind, or a fast-moving hostess wafting past my
ear. </div>
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Four hours into the journey, a major breakthrough: I
discover the handset for my entertainment centre located in the arm of my chair
– it wasn’t touchscreen after all. After much random button pressing, I stumble
upon a back episode of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Friends</i>. I
steal a few moments of escapism, smiling at Joey and lusting after Rachel, when
I’m jolted from my musings by a whack to the head; the woman occupying the seat
in front of me had decided to recline, the thrust back so violent it seemed as
if she’d taken a run at it. Worse still, the tilt of my entertainment screen
was such that the glare from the cabin lights now rendered it unwatchable.</div>
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And then the in-flight meal arrived. The pleasant hostess
insisted the woman in front return her seat to the upright so as to grant me
sufficient room to eat, and the prostrate figure grunted, exhaled loudly and
grudgingly complied. Relishing my additional cubic centimetre of space, I
peeled back the foil from my food tray to be confronted with spicy chicken noodles
– for breakfast! I ordered a large glass of white wine to try and dampen my
growing irritation but, at my second slurp, Zsa Zsa Gabor reclined again,
causing spillage – with Chardonnay dripping off my nose, I patted her on the
top of her over-lacquered head to ask her to return to the perpendicular,
evoking more grimacing and muttering. </div>
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Resigned to torture, I spent further hours folded into my
seat, neck, back and arse all aching to various degrees, enduring that dreadful
mix of discomfort and tedium. The fat man across the aisle belched loudly, his
wind deriving from the rapid consumption of five cans of Tiger beer. A young
couple a few rows down were delivering a decent – or maybe indecent – rerun of
the Jack and Rose sex scene from <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Titanic</i>,
with lots of groping, slurping and audible promises of undying love.</div>
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Thirteen hours and forty-nine minutes after take-off, we
landed at Singapore airport.</div>
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‘That wasn’t so bad after all,’ I said.</div>
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Mrs Jones’ expression did not require words. </div>
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P.S. I'm currently in the process of selling my house, car and body so we can afford business class on our next long-haul flight.</div>
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<i>Photo courtesy of satit_srihin at FreeDigitalPhotos.net</i><span style="margin: 0px;"><i> </i></span><span style="margin: 0px;"><i> </i></span><span style="margin: 0px;"><i> </i></span><span style="margin: 0px;"><i> </i></span><span style="margin: 0px;"><i> </i></span><span style="margin: 0px;"><i> </i></span></div>
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<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike>Bryan Joneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18193232823492134184noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3053340598207983157.post-86174403383669404102017-09-13T06:44:00.000-07:002017-09-13T06:44:40.764-07:00Pondering the imponderable<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgE7uYh-j-7SHnXq5j6Bhcai-KqJNy0H_yEifz7nO3a3GhotNM2KnIHE5bMY6XkSi9DkV4gLhD_F5LK089PRK7Ku7fbbCH4CNQ2JrJd6rJFSrW4QoC1e_gI9sUB7sAJNblU4XvslJZek8U/s1600/Courtesy+of+imagerymajestic+at+FreeDigitalPhotos.net+4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="265" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgE7uYh-j-7SHnXq5j6Bhcai-KqJNy0H_yEifz7nO3a3GhotNM2KnIHE5bMY6XkSi9DkV4gLhD_F5LK089PRK7Ku7fbbCH4CNQ2JrJd6rJFSrW4QoC1e_gI9sUB7sAJNblU4XvslJZek8U/s320/Courtesy+of+imagerymajestic+at+FreeDigitalPhotos.net+4.jpg" width="212" /></a></div>
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As I approach my 59<sup>th</sup> birthday, my troubled mind
increasingly dwells on a range of imponderable questions. If you can, please
ease my mental anguish by suggesting answers to any of the following:</div>
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<li style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: bold; margin: 0px;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">What possesses some people to pursue a career in chiropody? </b></li>
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Do they have a foot fetish? Or
perhaps they harbour masochistic tendencies, relishing the prospect of a life
spent on their knees wrestling with foot odour, nail clippings and flaky gunge?<br />
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<li style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: bold; margin: 0px;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Why are testicles crinkly?</b></li>
</ol>
Crinkles add flavour to my packet
of salt-and-vinegar crisps/chips, but what do they do for those two orbs swinging –
ever lower – between my legs? (Apart from making shaving a precarious activity).<br />
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<li style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: bold; margin: 0px;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Why does my soap dish not have a hole in the bottom?</b></li>
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It seems obvious, doesn’t it? In
the shower, work up a lather, drop soap back in its dish and, by the time you
grope for it again, it remains firm, all the excess water having drained away.
Instead, when I reach for my bar of Imperial Leather it often feels like I’m
dipping my fingers into a frothy cesspool.<br />
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<li style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: bold; margin: 0px;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Why do doctors in the gastro-intestinal department all have
fingers the width of telegraph poles?</b></li>
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Is it an essential requirement of
the job of the colon doctor to own a forefinger the size and consistency of a
log? Last month, when I suffered the finger-up-the-bum check, it felt as if I’d
been sodomised with the serrated trunk of a sturdy oak?<br />
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<li style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: bold; margin: 0px;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Why do restaurant waiters often wear polyester shirts?</b></li>
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Those fine young men who ferry my
ale, wine and Beef Madras to my table do a wonderful job for which I’m
eternally grateful. In the course of a typical day they must walk miles to
satiate the appetites of their customers. And naturally they sweat a lot. So
why in the name of all that’s holy do many opt to wear polyester or nylon
shirts? A perspiration-and-plastic combination smells like someone’s been
boiling cabbage in a communal latrine. <br />
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<li style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin: 0px;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Why does my willy shrivel during a hospital investigation?</b><span style="margin: 0px;"> </span></li>
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I’m confident that my wand is, at
least, an average size. When I inspect myself in the mirror after my morning shower,
(and when I go to the loo, get dressed, go to bed, get up in the morning) it hangs
out like a real cool dude. So why when I drop my briefs in front of female
nurses during a hospital examination does it get all bashful and recoil into my
abdomen, leaving something resembling a desiccated strawberry?<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_Lq00z8XqrJYxHBBdk-jg59a6BnsfWd3toIbyMzRJkOp-KwmlHMKRzbMblwAhsA_inW_oajQSrqtjE6lLrdD65uT_Ky0feUxn1JuyJoIqfb9jKF88n-dV6ahMUDxkqQKawbjIEDiKYt0/s1600/Courtesy+of+Nat_Stocker+at+FreeDigitalPhotos.net.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="266" data-original-width="400" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_Lq00z8XqrJYxHBBdk-jg59a6BnsfWd3toIbyMzRJkOp-KwmlHMKRzbMblwAhsA_inW_oajQSrqtjE6lLrdD65uT_Ky0feUxn1JuyJoIqfb9jKF88n-dV6ahMUDxkqQKawbjIEDiKYt0/s320/Courtesy+of+Nat_Stocker+at+FreeDigitalPhotos.net.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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These are the crucial questions that torment me. Can you
please give me respite by providing some answers? <br />
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<i>Photos courtesy of :</i><br />
<i>1. imagerymajestic at FreeDigitalPhotos.net</i><span style="margin: 0px;"> </span><span style="margin: 0px;"> </span><span style="margin: 0px;"> </span><br />
<i>2. Nat_Sticker at FreeDigitalPhotos.net</i></div>
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<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike>Bryan Joneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18193232823492134184noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3053340598207983157.post-6666445620714888812017-07-07T03:25:00.001-07:002017-07-07T03:25:49.513-07:00A man's got to know his limitations
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiw1n2DAizI0adsyeyMGJNAk39wZtkdN8NX7ImAAlt8rCVcUWqf8gyDTDC3yfi-KShaMdVpgQnjtk74IwWxP-IlpjxF7lz7Q1KOb7WdRf6jGvHlfOUOj3zkq3cDUSEbZE-E_8SrTqsY1t4/s1600/Cornflakes+box.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiw1n2DAizI0adsyeyMGJNAk39wZtkdN8NX7ImAAlt8rCVcUWqf8gyDTDC3yfi-KShaMdVpgQnjtk74IwWxP-IlpjxF7lz7Q1KOb7WdRf6jGvHlfOUOj3zkq3cDUSEbZE-E_8SrTqsY1t4/s320/Cornflakes+box.png" width="240" /></a></div>
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I’m good at some things. My Sunday roast propels fellow
diners into orgasmic rapture, I’m a more-than-decent public speaker, and the
speed of my mental arithmetic makes Sheldon appear mathematically challenged.
Nonetheless, it is important to be aware of one’s weaknesses – in the words of
Clint Eastwood’s Dirty Harry, ‘A man’s got to know his limitations’. </div>
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So here is a list of my limitations. And I’m not referring
to the ‘I’m-not-quite-as-strong-at’ sort of deficiencies – no sirree – these
are activities where I demonstrate such stunning incompetence that onlookers
assume parts of my brain have gone walkabouts. </div>
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<li style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin: 0px;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Opening cereal boxes</b></li>
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Mrs Jones begs me to ask for her
help when opening breakfast cereals. By the time I’ve prised off the cellophane
wrap from my Kellogg’s cornflakes, I’m in no mood to explore the subtleties of
the cardboard re-fastening device on the top of the box. Instead, I assault it
from the flank, penetrating it with a forefinger and tearing it open. For its
remaining shelf life, it sits bloated with its inners exposed, as if opened by a
stick of dynamite.</div>
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<li style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin: 0px;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Singing</b></li>
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I love listening to popular
music, but when it comes to singing I’m tone deaf. When I let fly in the shower
with my rendition of the Eagles’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Lying
Eyes, </i>Mrs Jones cringes, the local authority sees a sharp rise in reported
incidents of noise pollution, and the nightingales self-destruct. My attempts
at the high notes have even been known to interfere with my neighbours’ Wi-Fi
connection.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span></div>
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<li style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin: 0px;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">DIY</b></li>
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Men are expected to shine in the
Do-it-yourself department, delighting their ladies with displays of competence
around the home and garden. Not this bloke; I’m utterly useless. I’ve no idea
how to rewire a plug (all those colours are so confusing), the prospect of
putting up a curtain rail causes me sleepless nights, and my sole contribution
to assembling a flat-pack wardrobe from Ikea is checking we’ve received the
correct number of nuts and bolts (as I’ve said, I’m great at counting).</div>
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My level of ineptitude reached a
humiliating high last week. Armed with my brand new hedge trimmer, I strutted
into the front garden to prune the bushes. Within ten seconds, I was left
holding an impotent machine with a limp six-inches of wire dangling; yep, I’d
inadvertently cut through the electric cord and short-circuited the house. </div>
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<li style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: bold; margin: 0px;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Wrapping presents</b></li>
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For 30 years, the task of wrapping
Christmas and birthday gifts has usually defaulted to Mrs Jones. She excels at
it. Her dressed parcels always display crisp, symmetrical edges, with a
skin-tight paper covering, minimal sticky tape, and a decorative bow. </div>
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Unfortunately, it wouldn’t seem
right to ask Mrs Jones to wrap my gifts to her (although I have considered this
option) and I’ve no choice but to do it myself. On these rare occasions, the
end product looks as if it presented a moving target, one I didn’t quite catch
up with. Excess wrapping paper loiters at each end of the parcel, forming
unsightly bulges, and the (half-a-roll of) sticky tape appears to have been
applied via a scatter gun with each piece creased and misshapen. <span style="margin: 0px;"> </span><span style="margin: 0px;"> </span><span style="margin: 0px;"> </span></div>
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<li style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: bold; margin: 0px;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Drawing and artwork</b></li>
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I can recall sitting in an art
lesson as a child and the teacher leaning over my shoulder and whispering, ‘You’re
bloody useless, Jones’. That man was a shrewd judge. If I’m denied the use of
words, I’m void of all creativity. My attempts at drawing resemble the
scribblings of a three-year-old and, if it’s not painting by numbers, the colouring
stuff remains in the box. <span style="margin: 0px;"> </span><span style="margin: 0px;"> </span></div>
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<li style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: bold; margin: 0px;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Directional sense</b></li>
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When God was giving out internal
radars, he must have skipped my name. Either that or he had a sense of humour,
and relished the prospect of me groping around the earth in a permanent state
of spatial confusion. My sense of direction is dreadful. In a strange town I
can enter a building and, when I exit, I often fail to recall which direction I
approached from. Many hours have been wasted trying to find my parked the car.
And when driving to a specified destination I’ve sometimes, after hours of
futile circling, given up and headed for home - that is, of course, if I can find it. </div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 0px 24px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 0px 24px;">
Thank goodness for the greatest
invention of our time: satellite navigation.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 0px 24px;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 0px 24px;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 0px 24px;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 0px 24px;">
Does anyone else care to disclose
their ineptitudes?</div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 0px 24px;">
<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike>Bryan Joneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18193232823492134184noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3053340598207983157.post-85674411533750181982017-06-06T06:54:00.000-07:002017-06-06T06:56:19.975-07:00What do doctor's receptionists talk about?<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieLjC1DWpawDaegRT7qCISEjgo1_d9vKWJFUcGbvLdjZO7KkNGTtrDdUypScbfqxXtaplOro2aFnTvXu8LvI1bEhjSZVWg9MCCTvT2jYWDRtXd_vQn970gAl6pEGUXlGpPTLVm04DSHGQ/s1600/Courtesy+of+pixtawan+-+FreeDigitalPhotos.net.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="336" data-original-width="336" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieLjC1DWpawDaegRT7qCISEjgo1_d9vKWJFUcGbvLdjZO7KkNGTtrDdUypScbfqxXtaplOro2aFnTvXu8LvI1bEhjSZVWg9MCCTvT2jYWDRtXd_vQn970gAl6pEGUXlGpPTLVm04DSHGQ/s320/Courtesy+of+pixtawan+-+FreeDigitalPhotos.net.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
My haemorrhoids are misbehaving again. After completing my
morning evacuation, the bathroom porcelain resembles the aftermath of the siege
of Leningrad, with sufficient of the red stuff to supply the national blood
bank for the next decade. So, reluctantly, I decided to see my doctor.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
As per the formal procedure, I rang the health centre at
8.00 am to request an appointment. After noting my name and date of birth, the
receptionist found me a slot later that morning. But the conversation was not
yet over.</div>
<br />
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<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
‘I’m now obliged to ask this,’ she said, followed by a short
pause. ‘What is the problem that you want to see the doctor about?’</div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
Somewhat taken aback by the intrusiveness of the question, a
range of retorts pushed into my mind: </div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I’ve ruptured my
foreskin while engaged in athletic love-making;</i></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I’m farting so much
I’m a fire risk when near a naked flame; </i></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I tried on my wife’s
bra and the metal wire from the left cup has punctured my lung; </i><br />
<i><br /></i></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">My testicles
are hanging so low, when I sit on the toilet they plunge into the water like
depth charges.</i></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<i><br /></i></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
But I resisted the temptation and, instead, told the truth.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
‘I’m bleeding from the arse-hole.’</div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
‘Oh … right … sorry,’ she mumbled. ‘I’m told that I must
ask, but it seems … it feels a bit…’</div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
‘It’s OK, no worries,’ I said, starting to feel sorry for the
lady’s awkwardness.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
*** </div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
As I sat in the doctor’s waiting room two hours later,
listening for my name to be called, I sensed eyes on me. When I glanced up,
there were three female receptionists behind the glass talking and giggling to
one another. I wondered which of the trio I’d spoken to earlier on the phone.
Was it the young blonde lass, barely out of her teens; her inexperience might
have been responsible for the awkwardness? Or was it the older, worldly-wise woman in the
middle of the threesome, who seemed to be in charge? Maybe it was the smirking
receptionist on the end, whose gaze was fixed in my direction? </div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
And what were they discussing? The weather? What each was
planning to eat for lunch? Or whether I was the bloke with rivulets of blood
trickling down the crack of his arse? When I arose to see the doctor, I
imagined them checking my waiting-room seat for stains.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
But I subsequently realised that all my speculations were
likely to be groundless. As I was leaving the doctor’s surgery, I overheard
another patient - an old lady - standing at the reception window.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
‘I need a follow-up appointment with the doctor,’ she
announced. ‘I have to let him know whether I’m still leaking yellow goo out of
my cherry.’</div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
Clearly, the receptionists hear more spectacular stories
than mine.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Photo courtesy of pixtawan
at FreeDigitalPhotos.net</i></div>
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<br /></div>
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<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span><span style="margin: 0px;"> </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
<br />
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<br /></div>
<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike>Bryan Joneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18193232823492134184noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3053340598207983157.post-69588570636063338462017-04-06T03:41:00.000-07:002017-04-06T03:41:09.562-07:00The elusive cucumber
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmxm-iFgxSTYw2_poCGOmApitHYQ8rY0fEylUydIzblfwPPufN_RWATwaUiXNc3QSZYgA7Zu8ckdFuJQkV6P6xTUubVGiXz0OaPwAjuWBPTEzWCgiySRXDRqpe6ZuAqoRSH9i08eIZPYY/s1600/cucumber+%25282%2529.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmxm-iFgxSTYw2_poCGOmApitHYQ8rY0fEylUydIzblfwPPufN_RWATwaUiXNc3QSZYgA7Zu8ckdFuJQkV6P6xTUubVGiXz0OaPwAjuWBPTEzWCgiySRXDRqpe6ZuAqoRSH9i08eIZPYY/s320/cucumber+%25282%2529.png" width="240" /></a></div>
<div style="margin: 0px; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
‘On your way home, will you stop off at the supermarket for
some salad stuff?’ asked Mrs Jones.</div>
<br />
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<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
My car was in for its annual service so I took the call on
my mobile while sitting in the garage waiting area. ‘Yes, sure. What items do
we need?’</div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
‘Oh, the usual: lettuce, cucumber, tomatoes and red onions.’</div>
<br />
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<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
Two hours later I returned home and deposited the contents
of my supermarket bag onto the kitchen worktop. Mrs Jones exhaled – audibly –
and I detected a roll of the eyes followed by an implosion of her cheeks which,
after 36 years together, I knew could mean only one thing: I’d cocked up, big
time.</div>
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<div style="margin: 0px; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqn45pPVWAssNyL_TezJQYs_BKP0hcEbXDlB-o6fR-XuKkNNdHOV9xCCCUGHwN2s9TeP_e2Q9XY6-x2hoZgx_hjkZQ4ZPd_IvxstWyMfe19vg1Ad84YwJdyzbu4JPHMwYWsTNUk8TUsCE/s1600/Salad+selection+%252B+corgette+.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqn45pPVWAssNyL_TezJQYs_BKP0hcEbXDlB-o6fR-XuKkNNdHOV9xCCCUGHwN2s9TeP_e2Q9XY6-x2hoZgx_hjkZQ4ZPd_IvxstWyMfe19vg1Ad84YwJdyzbu4JPHMwYWsTNUk8TUsCE/s320/Salad+selection+%252B+corgette+.png" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
Failure to live up to a wife’s expectation typically means
that a man is subjected to a circuitous form of interrogation that is intended
to shame and humiliate.</div>
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<div style="margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
‘Where’s the cucumber?’ she asked, while her foot tapped on
the tiled floor, as if delivering a countdown to the moment of my execution.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
‘There,’ I said, pointing to the large, cylindrical item in
front of us.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
‘What makes you think that’s a cucumber?’</div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
‘Well, it looks like a cucumber; it’s dark green, shiny and …
… phallic.’</div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
‘It’s much bigger than any phallus I recognise,’ she said,
now relishing the role of the strident prosecutor. ‘That is not a cucumber.’</div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
‘What is it then?’</div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
‘It’s a courgette.’</div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
‘A what?’</div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
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‘A courgette. A marrow-like vegetable, sometimes referred to
as a zucchini.’</div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
‘It looks like a cucumber, so how was I supposed to know?’</div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
‘Maybe the sign over the box in the supermarket that read,
COURGETTES, might have given you a clue.’ </div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
Mrs Jones, savouring the taste of blood, broadened her
onslaught. The tomatoes were insufficiently ripe, the onions partly rotten, and
the lettuce much too big and shabby. (I must admit the lettuce resembled the
severed, semi-decomposed head of an obese gladiator. Although it could have
been worse; I almost brought home a cabbage). <span style="margin: 0px;"> </span><span style="margin: 0px;"> </span><span style="margin: 0px;"> </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
And to add to my pain, I now recall that I don’t like the
taste of courgettes. Something tells me they will be served up with every meal
for a week. </div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span><span style="margin: 0px;"> </span><span style="margin: 0px;"> </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike>Bryan Joneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18193232823492134184noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3053340598207983157.post-67426383501656606322017-02-16T05:44:00.000-08:002017-02-16T05:44:49.304-08:00Hovering over the cash machine
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9jlRu2aJ23IA5l9Yy9fH9gQgaT0mFdH5xTqWvJsnTUtFR7Fu5NlHMQqGEviNE3Uw8a-Uq7lUfnkoHxweDrAgI6gNIdilxDWg14ufU72OVTLkyBUyrW3Bx8Lznqpub1B4g1ljEm18FDz4/s1600/Courtesy+of+jk1991+at+FreeDigitalPhotos.net.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9jlRu2aJ23IA5l9Yy9fH9gQgaT0mFdH5xTqWvJsnTUtFR7Fu5NlHMQqGEviNE3Uw8a-Uq7lUfnkoHxweDrAgI6gNIdilxDWg14ufU72OVTLkyBUyrW3Bx8Lznqpub1B4g1ljEm18FDz4/s320/Courtesy+of+jk1991+at+FreeDigitalPhotos.net.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<u><span style="margin: 0px; text-decoration: none;"><br /></span></u></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
Life can be difficult for older people. In particular, advancing
years and technology can be a discomforting mix, as I recently discovered when
trying to teach my 85-year-old father how to use a cash dispenser.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
Throughout his life, my lovely dad has always drawn his
money from the local post office and, if paying his bills by cash is not an
option, he has always chosen to write a cheque. Credit and debit cards are alien to him. Alas, all the post offices in
his locality have shut down so he is now compelled to rely on the ‘hole-in-the-wall’
cash machine to get his hands on his money. He asked if I would show him how to use it and I agreed to
accompany him.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
The first time, he watched as I carried out the procedure step
by step, while providing a running commentary. On the second occasion – in an attempt
to consolidate his learning – I suggested that he perform the whole operation
himself, while I observed. We chose a quiet moment at the cashpoint located 200
metres from his home. </div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
The process went something like this:</div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
DAD: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Am I holding my
card the right way up?</i></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
ME: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Yes, it’s the
right way up.</i></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
DAD: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Then why won’t it
fit in the hole?</i></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
ME: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Because you’re
trying to shove it into the slot where the notes come out; you need to put it
here, where it says ‘INSERT CARD HERE’.</i></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
Card inserted, the menu of options appears on the screen.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
DAD: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Do I put my
4-digit number in now?</i></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
ME: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">No, not yet. You
first need to read the options and decide which one you want.</i></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
DAD: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">But I can’t read
them – I need my specs. </i>(Starts rummaging in his pockets in search of his
reading glasses). <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">OK – I can see it now.
So do I want ‘CASH ONLY’ or ‘CASH WITH RECEIPT’?</i></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
ME: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Well, do you want
a receipt?</i></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
DAD: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Oh yes – I always
get a receipt. You can’t trust anybody these days; they’re all trying to rip
you off. I need a receipt to …</i></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
ME: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">So press the ‘CASH
WITH RECEIPT’ button then.</i></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
DAD: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Where is it now …
let’s see … </i>(Finger hovering over the screen, as if carrying out a subtle
piece of black magic)? <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Oh, what’s
happened now?</i></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
ME: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">It’s timed you
out. Take your card out and we’ll try again.</i></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
DAD: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Just my luck to
get an iffy machine!</i></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
Dad inserts card again.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
DAD: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Do I put my
4-digit number in now? It’s 672 …</i></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
ME: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">No, not yet. Push
this button here to say you want cash with a receipt.</i></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
Dad pushes said button.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
DAD: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Can I put my 4-digit
number in now?</i></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
ME: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Wait a moment.
What does it say on the screen?</i></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
DAD: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">It says … </i>(moves
his face closer to the screen) … ‘<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">DO …YOU…WANT…TO…CHECK…YOUR…BALANCE…BEFORE…WITHDRAWING
… YOUR…CASH?’</i></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
ME: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Well, do you?</i></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
DAD: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Why would I want
to do that? I wouldn’t be withdrawing money if I didn’t have it in my bank
account. Me and your mother don’t spend money we haven’t got – unlike this
younger generation who … …</i></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
ME: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Then press this ‘NO’
button dad.</i></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
DAD: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Oh, the damn
thing’s timed me out again</i></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
By this point, a queue had formed behind us. Their facial
expressions suggested that, after witnessing this odd couple hovering over the
cash dispenser, many of them suspected I was guilty of elderly abuse, trying to
rip off the old fella. </div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
We let those waiting go before us and, about 20 minutes (and
three further attempts) later, my old dad was able to withdraw his £250. He
then proceeded to count it out – note by note – in the midst of passing
shoppers. I think I will need to accompany him a few more times before he gets
the hang of it.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<b></b><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike><i>Photo courtesy of jk1991 at FreeDigitalPhotos.net</i>Bryan Joneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18193232823492134184noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3053340598207983157.post-70061140432465067082017-01-07T03:21:00.000-08:002017-01-19T03:14:01.116-08:00My six enduring memories of Christmas and the New Year<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
As we enter into a new year, I thought I’d share with you my
personal highlights of the festive season, the most memorable moments of the
last three weeks. In no particular order, they are:</div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
1.<i> Singing with my mother-in-law</i><br />
<i><br /></i></div>
Sadly, my 81-year-old
mother-in-law is afflicted with Alzheimer’s disease; her memory span is no more
than a few seconds, she’s lost her sparky temperament, and - even when
surrounded by her family – she sits in silence with a blank expression. Well
she does until she hears Dusty Springfield.<br />
<br />
Late on Christmas Day, when all
the feasting had ended, we played some songs from the 1960s on You-Tube.
Watching mother-in-law belt out her rendition of Dusty’s ‘<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">You Don’t Have To Say You Love Me</i>’ (word perfect, face glowing with
delight) will be an image that will remain with me for ever.<br />
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
2. <i>Greeting cards from my elderly parents</i><br />
<i><br /></i></div>
Both my parents are in their
mid-80s and, while yet immune from the ravages of dementia, they do tend to be
a tad confused and forgetful. Sending greeting cards is a case in point.<br />
<br />
We received a delightful
Christmas card, wishing us wonderful cheer, but there was nothing written in it
– completely blank. A process of elimination, and detective work of a quality
Sherlock Holmes would relish, was required to identify the source.<br />
<br />
For Mrs Jones’ birthday (2<sup>nd</sup>
January) their greetings card arrived two days late due to their decision to
use a 2<sup>nd</sup>-class stamp – my lovely mother is as tight as a her
compression stocking – the post code was wrong, and their birthday wishes were
to their ‘daughter’ rather than ‘daughter-in-law’. Ah well, it’s the thought
that counts. <br />
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<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_dtBYCSTSjnxI9VWsHUM8arCPWxXBzf8JNvhE0wPkk8I1Vtg5ZEVqaU4ioUxwD2mRy-8VbmiJ1oL9mokrX6SGEulPLvX00nrUn-O5bBya-z0LGzXYCq2k7GPSr1nE60Yo6CxcSKn4l-8/s1600/Greetings+card+-+mum+dad.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_dtBYCSTSjnxI9VWsHUM8arCPWxXBzf8JNvhE0wPkk8I1Vtg5ZEVqaU4ioUxwD2mRy-8VbmiJ1oL9mokrX6SGEulPLvX00nrUn-O5bBya-z0LGzXYCq2k7GPSr1nE60Yo6CxcSKn4l-8/s320/Greetings+card+-+mum+dad.png" width="240" /></a></div>
</div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
3. <i>Disturbing images of offspring</i><br />
<ol start="3" style="margin-top: 0cm;" type="1">
</ol>
My two babies are now aged 26 and
22, both away from home and enjoying their lives to the full. Over the
holiday period, each sent me an image that unsettled me.<br />
<br />
Ryan opted to attend his
football’s team’s annual fancy-dress pub crawl in the role of Alex, the<br />
evil
star from the cult film, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">A Clockwork
Orange</i>. Never one for half measures, the <br />
resemblance with the Malcolm
McDowell character was chilling, not least because he had informed me that he’d
recently rerun the film six times to get into role. I was left to hope that,<br />
during his tour of all the local drinking holes, he refrained from beating an
old lady to death<br />
with a giant phallus. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVHvqCOZLRyfsdBHsKnO70nVB1ccCgM8TbBEn83QqoDrkrkD8hgVbGLuTg1Ei5S0n3JVgFQag7XrlvAqVVxpsdBzqlGi28t6D3G52DRBWifDqrEc57rsX1WOvngTgD-YwxHn2ge9qgJFw/s1600/Ryan+as+Alex+-+Clockwork+Orange.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVHvqCOZLRyfsdBHsKnO70nVB1ccCgM8TbBEn83QqoDrkrkD8hgVbGLuTg1Ei5S0n3JVgFQag7XrlvAqVVxpsdBzqlGi28t6D3G52DRBWifDqrEc57rsX1WOvngTgD-YwxHn2ge9qgJFw/s320/Ryan+as+Alex+-+Clockwork+Orange.JPG" width="180" /></a></div>
Becca is gallivanting around the
world and sent me a video of her sliding, head first at high velocity, on a
flimsy piece of matting down an improvised mud slide in Brisbane, Australia.
When she hit the pond at the bottom, she skimmed across the water and almost
hit the banking on the other side. She afterwards tried to reassure me that the
only injuries she’d sustained were 'a few friction burns'. <br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 0px 48px;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dzjkw55V4_aRX8UrHx4mu9RCVSHNL861l2VaDZZiNtIx4tdP5s4DZ5Zka0FXZ-Ttcn0DZymaRAKcKJZ2MtiYw' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span><br />
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<i>4. Arse grabbing</i></div>
<br />
Shortly after midnight, in the
midst of new-year revelry, the wife of my best friend grabbed<br />
my right buttock.
She can be forgiven for I was wearing my favourite slacks, the cut of which <br />
shape
my arse into an irresistible pout. The butt-clutching incident was made all the
more <br />
remarkable as the lady in question is typically reserved and
self-conscious. Luckily, she was<br />
so pissed at the time I’m sure she’ll retain
no memory of her cheeky squeeze; I’ll choose the <br />
right moment in 2017 to remind
her of it!<br />
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="color: black; font-family: "times new roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; margin: 0px;">
5. <i>A vivid dream</i></div>
<ol start="5" style="margin-top: 0cm;" type="1">
</ol>
Over recent weeks, our house has
undergone a few renovations and, as such, many workmen <br />
have visited. One night
over the Christmas period I experienced the most vivid of dreams. I <br />
will not go
into detail. Suffice it to say that it involved me, Mrs Jones, two burly
builders and <br />
a hosepipe. Watering the garden will never feel quite the same.<br />
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
</div>
<br />
<div style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin: 0px;">
6. <i>Prettiest lady in the pub</i></div>
<ol start="6" style="margin-top: 0cm;" type="1">
</ol>
A couple of minutes before the
end of 2016 I recall glancing across the table at the woman<br />
opposite and
thinking that she was, undoubtedly, the most attractive individual in the whole
<br />
pub. My second thought was that I’m so very fortunate, as the lady I was eyeing
was none <br />
other than Mrs Jones. And in addition to her beauty - inside and out -
there is an additional <br />
bonus: she can’t half hold her ale. <br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkOO_f-98tKFfXWkdiR_C7FBvy-UlWiuD1iqy8JkTHQxCsWLXkq-qXiTNhhnDXXPVI3uuFwPMv2upI5xUpZ6YxWYl7ludNOJy-XCF5SlTLr-sNaZDJn7hlSSdjlcL0NQL8Mxx2W39TqMQ/s1600/Sue+Gary+Kefalonia+2016.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkOO_f-98tKFfXWkdiR_C7FBvy-UlWiuD1iqy8JkTHQxCsWLXkq-qXiTNhhnDXXPVI3uuFwPMv2upI5xUpZ6YxWYl7ludNOJy-XCF5SlTLr-sNaZDJn7hlSSdjlcL0NQL8Mxx2W39TqMQ/s1600/Sue+Gary+Kefalonia+2016.JPG" /></a></div>
<br />
Best wishes for 2017 to you all.<br />
<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike>Bryan Joneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18193232823492134184noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3053340598207983157.post-34803035894603388762016-12-02T08:33:00.000-08:002016-12-02T08:33:19.476-08:00A woman should wobble
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmZM1LQVIRhqZj7vveO2zdUKpbpdqMuEnZ7fqHJyaM5ld37KJ0FchL2VWO7S05YfVYw1AP2oEJFofisGclZaOW9XmixoHGHLLEp7wQiC3bPpTrZ6_4uf6nM4_U7hi7eoGeGFq20m7rLOo/s1600/Courtesy+of+stockimages+at+FreeDigitalPhotos.net+4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmZM1LQVIRhqZj7vveO2zdUKpbpdqMuEnZ7fqHJyaM5ld37KJ0FchL2VWO7S05YfVYw1AP2oEJFofisGclZaOW9XmixoHGHLLEp7wQiC3bPpTrZ6_4uf6nM4_U7hi7eoGeGFq20m7rLOo/s400/Courtesy+of+stockimages+at+FreeDigitalPhotos.net+4.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 0px 48px;">
I’ve been thinking a lot about
sex and lust. (What man doesn’t; even the 58-year-old variety). And over the
last few years I’ve realised that my inclinations towards the female form are
changing. I find I’m less and less activated by the exposed flesh of young
women, while my proclivity towards the older form seems to grow stronger with
each passing year.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 0px 48px;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 0px 48px;">
Of course, this transition may be
an adaptive one, a part of man’s evolution. It would be crushing for a bloke to
yearn after something he can no longer attain – someone like me, on the cusp of
drawing his state pension and lacking both millionaire status and an enormous
phallus, is never going to attract beautiful ladies who are half his age.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 0px 48px;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 0px 48px;">
I should emphasise at this point
that I never have, and never will, seek sexual liaisons with anyone other than
Mrs Jones. But, to repeat an old adage, there’s no harm in looking. And now,
when I look – in the street, pub, or on <s>Naughty America</s> TV – my taste is
evolving in the direction of a mature spruce with more concentric rings around
the trunk.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 0px 48px;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 0px 48px;">
A real woman should not own a
sculpted, porcelain-like, body. And boob jobs are a definite no-no; when on the
move, and unsupported, breasts should not remain firm and static in their
silicon straitjacket but should swing, independently of each other, like two
pendulous orbs frantically striving to get as far away from each other as
possible. A lipid cushion around the girth and buttocks never fails to please a
heterosexual, middle-aged male, being more rewarding to touch and warmer to
snuggle against in the cold of night.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 0px 48px;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 0px 48px;">
Is there a finer sight than a
mature, voluptuous lady – naked as the day she was born – wobbling in your
direction? (Sweet baby Jesus, I’m going all unnecessary at the thought).</div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 0px 48px;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 0px 48px;">
So if you are an 80 year-old
mother of a daughter, and see me approaching, I suggest you lock her away for
her own safety. Indeed, you might wish to take cover yourself as, when I think
about it, isn’t there something weirdly alluring about dentures, wrinkles and arthritic
limbs. <span style="margin: 0px;"> </span><span style="margin: 0px;"> </span><span style="margin: 0px;"> </span><span style="margin: 0px;"> </span><span style="margin: 0px;"> </span><span style="margin: 0px;"> </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 0px 48px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 0px 48px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 0px 48px;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 0px 48px;">
** Alas, Mrs Jones refused to pose for the photograph - women, eh; I'll never understand them - so I had to import one courtesy of s<i>tockimages at FreeDigitalPhotos.net. **</i></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 0px 48px;">
<br /></div>
<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike>Bryan Joneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18193232823492134184noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3053340598207983157.post-61618140614040857752016-10-15T07:20:00.000-07:002016-10-15T07:20:59.112-07:00Squeegee and bum cheeks
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibbouOPw_VgUycue97bvYzFDllHWZTQiDJvWSZv7lbSwf3V9OnR4odlr1_iEk9PWxg-68QP9wd7SMP7Qbo6Rvcp4lqLUAGUWCavwAw-eFmNXQL1PnpYui5JzGHu4ohvj8_iJXBCgG_-is/s1600/Shower+2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibbouOPw_VgUycue97bvYzFDllHWZTQiDJvWSZv7lbSwf3V9OnR4odlr1_iEk9PWxg-68QP9wd7SMP7Qbo6Rvcp4lqLUAGUWCavwAw-eFmNXQL1PnpYui5JzGHu4ohvj8_iJXBCgG_-is/s320/Shower+2.JPG" width="240" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnWml-S0tiISn_p_nAoY9njHzVcYx-5gteqZqctM-a-Qja2SMwkKP0K0_EVEyP-m0BMaw_sUBxNkHr7sf6W-bfDyOXregg7e-N_rcJl_D6KD6FNKDe5QMu5ItNiFLtRurLpSlOQBniPSU/s1600/Shower.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnWml-S0tiISn_p_nAoY9njHzVcYx-5gteqZqctM-a-Qja2SMwkKP0K0_EVEyP-m0BMaw_sUBxNkHr7sf6W-bfDyOXregg7e-N_rcJl_D6KD6FNKDe5QMu5ItNiFLtRurLpSlOQBniPSU/s320/Shower.JPG" width="240" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibbouOPw_VgUycue97bvYzFDllHWZTQiDJvWSZv7lbSwf3V9OnR4odlr1_iEk9PWxg-68QP9wd7SMP7Qbo6Rvcp4lqLUAGUWCavwAw-eFmNXQL1PnpYui5JzGHu4ohvj8_iJXBCgG_-is/s1600/Shower+2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></div>
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<div style="margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
It is often said that when you live with the same person
over many years you grow more and more alike. In our house this phenomenon is
most apparent in regards to our newly-fitted shower cubicle.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
Mrs Jones is rather obsessive when it comes to cleaning our
house. Following the recent fitting of our spanking new bathroom, it was no
surprise to find her devoting three hours each week to scrubbing the glass and
tiles so as to maintain their sparkle. Her urge to cleanse was, she told me,
mainly activated by her noticing water stains on the sides of the shower unit.
To counter these triggers, she bought a squeegee – those plastic-handled
implements with the rubber edge, commonly used by window cleaners. She told me
that she uses this squeegee to remove the drips from all four sides of the
cubicle (two tiled, two glass) immediately after each shower. Strategically, she
left the device hanging from one of the bathroom fittings.</div>
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<div style="margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
Immediately following my daily rinse, I now feel compelled
to replicate my wife’s cleaning behaviour. If anyone was unfortunate enough to
spy on my after-shower routine in the cubicle, this is what they would witness:
</div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
STEP 1 – Turn off the sprinkler and pick up the squeegee.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
STEP 2 – Standing on tiptoes, dripping wet, stretch and
place the squeegee at the top of one glass wall, and slide it downwards to the
floor in one smooth, squeaky stroke, while being mesmerised by the strangely
addictive droplets of water toing and froing in all directions as if to evade
capture.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
STEP 3 – Upon reaching the crouch position at the bottom of
the stroke, I contemplate how my scrotum swings dangerously close to the shower
floor; another few years and I fear my balls will slap against the plastic base
like two sloppy dollops of Play-doh. <span style="margin: 0px;"> </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
STEP 4: Repeat the above, stretching up and down as if in an
exercise class, until all of the glass wall is completely free of rogue
droplets.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
STEP 5: Turn 90 degrees and follow the same procedure with
tiled wall only to find that, as I bend, my arse cheeks leave a soggy, two-crescent
imprint on the previously cleansed glass which then requires more strokes of my
squeegee.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
STEPS 6 to 12: Repeat all the above, involving a psychedelic
kaleidoscope of gangly bits and hairy rump.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
So each morning I spend a half-hour in the bathroom: five
minutes to shower and 25 minutes to clean the damn thing. But it does continue
to sparkle. <span style="margin: 0px;"> </span><span style="margin: 0px;"> </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span><span style="margin: 0px;"> </span><span style="margin: 0px;"> </span><span style="margin: 0px;"> </span></div>
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<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike>Bryan Joneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18193232823492134184noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3053340598207983157.post-28878140467858721692016-09-13T08:25:00.000-07:002016-09-13T08:28:55.196-07:00My 'time-and-motion' job<br />
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I’m sure we’ve all had jobs in our youth or young adulthood
that trigger a smile when we reminisce about them. As a naïve 19-year-old, I
recall a temporary summer job during college vacation that instantly rendered
me the most unpopular person in the whole factory.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbfsXsrDLbFwswTISzFylkoblcnS6O3ERTo9E52qAwSSSfDj3ExR7ukz5iyBWmDF7zm8xVjd2ND5DHxGhF6B_D7jZclum2aO8Cbdl6dSDGDJvGuvyo0jimDzxJ95ov4CWttoeqB7L_SYo/s1600/ID-100155384.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbfsXsrDLbFwswTISzFylkoblcnS6O3ERTo9E52qAwSSSfDj3ExR7ukz5iyBWmDF7zm8xVjd2ND5DHxGhF6B_D7jZclum2aO8Cbdl6dSDGDJvGuvyo0jimDzxJ95ov4CWttoeqB7L_SYo/s400/ID-100155384.jpg" width="258" /></a></div>
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It was 1978, during my 12-week summer recess from
university. To earn beer money I needed to work, so my mother helpfully found
me a job at the local textile mill where she was employed as a weaver.
Initially, my efforts were directed to general labouring tasks – such as
scraping grease off the weaving-shed floor – but after a couple of weeks the
boss called me into his office.</div>
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‘I’d like you to become my “time and motion” man,’ he said.</div>
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I was unsure what this role involved. Was it something to do
with shit? A toilet monitor, perhaps? Or would I be running errands for him,
maybe nipping out to the shop to buy his cigarettes? Maybe he wanted me for his
bitch, to bugger me over his work desk whenever the urge arose? Whatever the
job involved, it would surely be a step up from chiselling a year’s worth of
detritus from between the power looms.</div>
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‘Great,’ I said. ‘When can I start?’</div>
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The boss was engaged in a mission to boost productivity. The
factory was not churning out enough cloth and he wanted to know why. My –
terribly important – role required me to sit on the top of a step ladder (like
a tennis umpire) in the main weaving shed with a clipboard in one hand and a
stopwatch in the other. This room contained 10 looms that rattled away
transforming threads of yarn into linen, each machine manned by a responsible
weaver. When a loom was active, a green light flashed above the machine; when
stopped, a red light flashed. My job was to record the cumulative time that
each machine was dormant.</div>
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As one might imagine, my presence in the weaving shed was
not generally welcomed by the weavers; if their machines were stopped for any
length of time, the management would ask questions. Nevertheless, I took to my
‘spying for the bosses’ role seriously, and was soon transformed into a
Gestapo-like overseer of the inmates. Each time that red light flashed, my
stopwatch started and remained on until the green light was restored; the
period of inactivity was then noted on my chart.</div>
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Throughout each day of employment in this lofty position, a typical
interaction went something like this:</div>
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WEAVER: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">What stoppages
have you got for loom 7 this morning?</i></div>
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ME: (scrutinising my chart, my lips pursed in readiness for
delivering bad news) <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Inactive on just the
one occasion between 8.14 am and 8.35 am, that’s 21 minutes in total.</i></div>
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WEAVER: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">But that
shouldn’t count. It wasn’t my fault – the warehouse bloke was slow bringing me
my yarn and I ran out.</i></div>
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ME: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Sorry, pal, but
there is not a column on my chart for explanations. My task is to solely record
the period of inactivity.</i></div>
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After a few days in the role I even noticed that a couple of
the workers would strategically position themselves in front of their lights,
obstructing my view, thereby requiring me to descend from my stepladder and
strut through the weaving shed to (invariably) discover their red bulb
flashing; the subsequent dramatic flash of my pencil on chart screamed the
message, ‘you can’t fool me’.</div>
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My ‘time-and-motion’ role lasted two weeks, after which I
returned to removing grease and other debris from the factory floor. To their
eternal credit, none of the weavers held a grudge and I received no criticism
in the aftermath. Come to think of it, they didn’t say much to me at all. And,
now I look back, there did seem to be a sharp increase in number of accidental
spillages that required my attention. And my break-time cup of tea acquired a
strange yellowy-green tinge and a whiff of ammonia … …</div>
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Has anyone else ever worked in a role that made you
unpopular? </div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Image courtesy of artur84
at FreeDigitalPhotos.net</i></div>
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<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></i></div>
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<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike>Bryan Joneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18193232823492134184noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3053340598207983157.post-65043507818729266542016-07-21T07:24:00.002-07:002016-07-28T02:50:26.679-07:00A bus ride, Greek style<br />
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After another afternoon in Kefalonia, lolloping by the
swimming pool under the scorching Greek sun, Mrs Jones and I followed our usual
holiday routine. We returned to our apartment, showered, admired our tanned
skins in the mirror, plastered our flesh with generous splodges of hydrating
lotion, and dressed in smart night-time attire in readiness for the evening
meal in a local restaurant. <br />
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Our holiday accommodation overlooked the sea, and on
previous nights we’d dined in nearby tavernas, reachable via a five-minute
stroll along the beach front. On this particular evening, however, we’d decided
to try <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Olive Lounge </i>restaurant as
recommended by Trip Advisor. Located a mile away, access to this eatery could
only be achieved by traversing a harsh and winding incline, known to the locals
as ‘cardiac hill’. Even at 7.00 pm, the temperature was still pushing 30
degrees so walking was not an option.</div>
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At our secluded resort, taxis were as rare as a drug-free
Russian athlete and, as with most things Greek, the local bus service was unreliable,
seeming to follow a covert timetable capriciously determined by the whim of the
driver. So as we left our apartment on this particular evening and spotted the
green minibus pull up at the foot of cardiac hill, it seemed like an
opportunity not to be missed. Transiently forgetting the heat and humidity, my
short, 57-year-old legs sprang into piston-like motion propelling me – hands waving
– towards the bus, Mrs Jones in my slipstream.</div>
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By the time I was climbing the steps to pay the fare, I
could detect rivulets of sweat darting down my spine and trickling into the
dark recess between the cheeks of my arse. The fare was 1 euro and 20 cents
each, but I only had a 20-euro note; the driver sighed and seemed to spend an
age fiddling with his coins to give me change. The interior of the non-air-conditioned
bus was suffocating and when I glanced towards my fellow passengers their glares
and communal panting indicated that my late arrival had not been appreciated.</div>
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The bus was almost full, occupied mostly by tourists in
swimwear who had spent the day frying on the beach. The only vacant seats were
on the back row. As we staggered along the aisle - the walk of shame – a pungent
mix of burning flesh, Ambre Solaire and mosquito repellent assaulted my senses,
causing me to gag. My eyes streamed as if irritated by the chlorine gas used in
the trenches of the 1<sup>st</sup> World War.</div>
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I managed to sit before I stumbled only to discover that the
German gentleman next to me reeked of stale tobacco. Furthermore, Wilhelm
Woodbine was in the process of rolling himself another cigarette, the contents
of which smelt like camel shit. A lady directly in front of me was holding two
stainless-steel hiking sticks – what the fuck! - one of which intermittently
jabbed into my thigh. A bikini-clad woman, three rows in front, held a 2-metre-long
inflatable dinghy on her shoulder; each time the bus turned a corner, the
plastic monstrosity pressed against my face, further accelerating my rate of perspiration.
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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Half way up cardiac hill we could stand it no longer. The
potent combination of sweat, smog and suffocation propelled me to stand and stumble
towards the exit, begging the driver to let me out. He obliged and opened the
doors, his face conveying a ‘what’s your problem?’ expression. A German lady at
the front, who appeared calm and unflustered, and typically much more dignified
than her British counterparts, announced, ‘I sink I will get off here too’. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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Once off the bus into the relative cool of the Greek
sunshine, Mrs Jones and I crouched, gasping, heads between our knees. Composure
regained, we abandoned our pilgrimage to the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Olive Lounge </i>and rolled into a nearby bar. Two hours later, feeling
refreshed after imbibing copious quantities of cold Mythos - the local larger -
and with the sun now set, we free-wheeled down cardiac hill to dine in our
usual taverna. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike>Bryan Joneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18193232823492134184noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3053340598207983157.post-85373426903490675752016-06-24T04:33:00.000-07:002016-06-24T06:18:24.561-07:00What does your smartphone notebook say about you?<br />
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I showed some reluctance to embrace the technological age,
convinced that a combination of quill, parchment and carrier pigeon could
fulfil all my communication needs. Alas, like almost everyone, I eventually
surrendered and now own a range of devices, including a smartphone. </div>
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Nowadays I wonder how I ever survived without my Sony Xperia
and devote a chunk of each day to spouting my opinions on Facebook, Twitter and
other forms of social media. In addition, one application that I regularly use
is the ‘Notes’ app, a simple tool that allows one to jot down useful
information of any kind; a sort of repository for details, facts and figures I
believe I may need to access in the future. Perhaps I’ve got too much time on
my hands, but last week I spent an hour or so looking down my list of headings –
72 in total – that comprise my personal notes section. It made interesting
reading; indeed, one might consider it a personality assessment or mid-life
review.</div>
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Some of the headings were unsurprising for a 57-year-old
bloke striving to earn a few extra quid as a freelance writer and trainer. Thus, my
notes section included titles such as 'teaching venues', 'books to read' and 'ideas
for blogposts'. However, other headers on the list were less predictable and
maybe provide a neat snapshot of my life.</div>
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Below I share a few of the more curious headings on my
notebook. I’ve not included any of the detail filed under each one – I’ll leave
that to your imagination.</div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">BUSH PRUNING</b><br />
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">LASCIVIOUS</b></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">BLOOD PRESSURE</b></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">VA VA VOOM</b></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">BURNLEY LADIES</b></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">GENERIC PHARMACY</b></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">RED WINE</b></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">ROOM 1621</b></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">LLOYDS PHARMACY</b></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">TURKEY</b></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">ALOE VERA GEL</b></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">CHRONIC COUGH</b></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">PILES</b></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">VIBES</b></div>
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After that peep into my personal world, do you think you
know me any better now? Likewise, take a look at your own device; what does
your smartphone notebook say about you?<br />
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<i>Phot courtesy of Sira Anamwong at FreeDigitalPhotos.net</i></div>
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<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
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<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike>Bryan Joneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18193232823492134184noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3053340598207983157.post-86269594999114511202016-05-20T02:38:00.001-07:002016-05-24T05:46:24.497-07:00Macho madness in the front garden<br />
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I’m not a gardener. It typically requires
all my self-motivational powers to hoist me out of my</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZwkmuNdg-uB_FgZ3559eZ-hWqm_N-hm48Fu0G5SzmYaJkQuurCbsLWNsY10I5SnwtqH01qAsDvKClUUQdba9J5gBvD0y9Ma_r7D9gpiRkG8kSSm0ly-1HtqZIP_0GFCt1P9kGM9PIFXw/s1600/Blue+slate+garden.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZwkmuNdg-uB_FgZ3559eZ-hWqm_N-hm48Fu0G5SzmYaJkQuurCbsLWNsY10I5SnwtqH01qAsDvKClUUQdba9J5gBvD0y9Ma_r7D9gpiRkG8kSSm0ly-1HtqZIP_0GFCt1P9kGM9PIFXw/s400/Blue+slate+garden.png" width="223" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZwkmuNdg-uB_FgZ3559eZ-hWqm_N-hm48Fu0G5SzmYaJkQuurCbsLWNsY10I5SnwtqH01qAsDvKClUUQdba9J5gBvD0y9Ma_r7D9gpiRkG8kSSm0ly-1HtqZIP_0GFCt1P9kGM9PIFXw/s1600/Blue+slate+garden.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a> armchair to mow the back
lawn once a month. But a recent house move, male pomp, and a desire to impress
our new neighbours, spawned some frenetic green-fingered activity that almost
resulted in my hospitalisation. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZwkmuNdg-uB_FgZ3559eZ-hWqm_N-hm48Fu0G5SzmYaJkQuurCbsLWNsY10I5SnwtqH01qAsDvKClUUQdba9J5gBvD0y9Ma_r7D9gpiRkG8kSSm0ly-1HtqZIP_0GFCt1P9kGM9PIFXw/s1600/Blue+slate+garden.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a>The front garden comprises a
sloping rockery down one side, and a gravel area in the centre with flower beds
around the edges. A two-day combined onslaught by me and Mrs Jones successfully
removed all the weeds. Job complete, I was anticipating a few weeks of rest
until I noticed my lady gazing at the pebbly expanse with an expression that
could only mean that she was forming a cunning plan.</div>
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<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt 36pt;">
‘We need some decorative slate
for this middle section,’ she said. ‘It’s looking a bit shabby.’ </div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt 36pt;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt 36pt;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZwkmuNdg-uB_FgZ3559eZ-hWqm_N-hm48Fu0G5SzmYaJkQuurCbsLWNsY10I5SnwtqH01qAsDvKClUUQdba9J5gBvD0y9Ma_r7D9gpiRkG8kSSm0ly-1HtqZIP_0GFCt1P9kGM9PIFXw/s1600/Blue+slate+garden.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a>I held back my sighs. There was
no point arguing – her mind was made up – so off we went to the local garden
centre. </div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt 36pt;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt 36pt;">
‘This blue stuff would look
nice,’ she said while pointing to a mound of hefty bags stacked outside the
main entrance. ‘How many would we need?’</div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt 36pt;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt 36pt;">
‘Four?’ I ventured, mindful that
they were £4.99 ($8) each.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt 36pt;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt 36pt;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZwkmuNdg-uB_FgZ3559eZ-hWqm_N-hm48Fu0G5SzmYaJkQuurCbsLWNsY10I5SnwtqH01qAsDvKClUUQdba9J5gBvD0y9Ma_r7D9gpiRkG8kSSm0ly-1HtqZIP_0GFCt1P9kGM9PIFXw/s1600/Blue+slate+garden.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a>‘We’ll require more than that,’
she sneered.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt 36pt;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt 36pt;">
‘OK, eight then; but let’s
remember whose fault it is when we have loads left over.’ </div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt 36pt;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt 36pt;">
When we’d paid the lady cashier,
she insisted that one of her boys load them into the back of my car. I thanked
her for her kindness, while inwardly affronted that she thought that my
57-year-old frame was not up to the task. </div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt 36pt;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt 36pt;">
The same afternoon I set to work,
while Mrs Jones attended to indoor domestic chores. Yes, they were heavy, but I
managed to unload each of the eight bags of ‘blue slate decorative aggregate’
and dispense the contents onto the gravelly stretch of my front garden.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt 36pt;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt 36pt;">
Thirty minutes later, my sweaty
brow and dusty eyebrows appeared at the open front-room window, prompting Mrs
Jones to turn off her noisy vacuum cleaner.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt 36pt;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt 36pt;">
‘We’re going to need a few more
bags,’ I said.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt 36pt;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt 36pt;">
She immediately gave me the ‘I
told you so’ look. ‘How many?’</div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt 36pt;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt 36pt;">
‘Thirty-five more should do it.’ </div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt 36pt;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt 36pt;">
This time I ordered online, and
the following afternoon the garden-centre van reversed onto my drive. A
muscular, gypsy-looking 30-something with a shock of black hair, wearing a
flimsy white t-shirt that struggled to contain his rippled torso, opened the
rear doors of his vehicle.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt 36pt;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt 36pt;">
‘I’ll need to unload these bags
next to where you’re going to spread them; they’re heavy.’</div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt 36pt;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt 36pt;">
‘No, stack them over here, next
to the garage,’ I replied, pointing at a spot about 20 metres away from my
front garden.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt 36pt;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt 36pt;">
‘Are you sure?’ he asked, looking
me up and down as if assessing my body mass index.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt 36pt;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt 36pt;">
‘Yes, here will be fine,’ I said,
smugly. </div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt 36pt;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt 36pt;">
The hulk proceeded to flip each
of the bags from the van onto his shoulder and stacked them on my driveway as
directed, completing the whole venture in less than five minutes.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt 36pt;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt 36pt;">
Immediately he’d left, I set to
work. How difficult could it be? I’d earlier managed to spread eight of the
things, so another 35 shouldn’t be too difficult. The warm, sunny afternoon had
brought a few neighbours out into their gardens. I sensed they had clocked my
conversation with the delivery man. I had an audience. The challenge was on.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt 36pt;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt 36pt;">
The first few bags caused little
difficulty. I flipped each onto my thigh before raising it to chest height (like
a professional weight-lifter) and strutting across to my garden for spreading.
Indeed, I imagined I was in ‘The World’s Strongest Man’ competition showing
those hairy Neanderthals (who, in my imagination, comprised the other
contestants) how it was done. I could swear that the lady next door was almost
swooning at my raw athleticism.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt 36pt;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt 36pt;">
By the time I reached double
figures, I could feel the burn of lactic acid accumulating in my arms and legs.
The bags were no longer reaching chest height, instead dangling around my legs
as I dragged them while clinging to two corners of the plastic packaging.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt 36pt;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt 36pt;">
When I reached the twenties, I
was panting like a Viagra-fuelled dog. One lift triggered an audible fart, and
I prayed that the neighbours were out of earshot, or that the sound of my gaseous emission
had been muffled by all my gasping and wheezing. I felt dizzy, and suspected
that I was now swaying as I heaved each load to the garden. My vision blurred
as salty perspiration stung my eyes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt 36pt;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt 36pt;">
I think it was around bag number
31 that I wet myself, the energy behind my upward thrust, while barely sufficient
to move the blue slate, was enough to contract my bladder. Thankfully my
navy-blue tracksuit bottoms concealed the damp patch emerging around my groin. </div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt 36pt;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt 36pt;">
Despite these adversities, I somehow managed to complete the job. As I
staggered back indoors, feeling confused and disorientated, my clothing stained with sweat, piss and spittle, Mrs
Jones was stood gazing out of the front-room window.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt 36pt;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt 36pt;">
‘Ah, that looks much better,’ she
said.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt 36pt;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt 36pt;">
‘It wasn’t that difficult,’ I
muttered, while hurrying to the bathroom to clean myself up before she turned
round. ‘They weren’t that heavy.’<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt 36pt;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt 36pt;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt 36pt;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt 36pt;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt 36pt;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt 36pt;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt 36pt;">
<br /></div>
<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike>Bryan Joneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18193232823492134184noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3053340598207983157.post-86730476128690704072016-04-21T01:59:00.000-07:002016-04-21T01:59:21.160-07:00The excruciating 3rd meet
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt 36pt;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbIBqHKol-yDncelcHvOIQK8bxNt2iEKafA35BUYOOkxF5rucmG9JaFOeC_fAQizEaKzO8WuoIsQ2NU7A6kn1LKxnn7Tkza-zOe1H6HrYUmc5ZnlK7CmqHYtCMWX-w4WlVw03sx29T2hg/s1600/Courtesy+of+renjith+krishnan+FreeDigitalPhotos.net.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="132" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbIBqHKol-yDncelcHvOIQK8bxNt2iEKafA35BUYOOkxF5rucmG9JaFOeC_fAQizEaKzO8WuoIsQ2NU7A6kn1LKxnn7Tkza-zOe1H6HrYUmc5ZnlK7CmqHYtCMWX-w4WlVw03sx29T2hg/s200/Courtesy+of+renjith+krishnan+FreeDigitalPhotos.net.jpg" width="200" /></a>Micky Flanagan, a superb British
comedian, tells a gag about the social awkwardness of unintentionally meeting
someone you know on three occasions within a short period of time. I didn’t
grasp what he meant until last Wednesday at the local supermarket. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbIBqHKol-yDncelcHvOIQK8bxNt2iEKafA35BUYOOkxF5rucmG9JaFOeC_fAQizEaKzO8WuoIsQ2NU7A6kn1LKxnn7Tkza-zOe1H6HrYUmc5ZnlK7CmqHYtCMWX-w4WlVw03sx29T2hg/s1600/Courtesy+of+renjith+krishnan+FreeDigitalPhotos.net.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt 36pt;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt 36pt;">
Four months ago we moved into a
new house and, not being the most outgoing person – OK, I accept I’m a smidgeon
away from a full-time hermit – interactions with my new neighbours have been
rare. There is, however, a bloke who lives opposite who, several times each
day, stands in his garden smoking a cigarette; I’ve yet to discover his name
but Mrs Jones and I refer to him as ‘nicotine Norman’. I like to be civil so,
when leaving or entering my house, when he’s standing there puffing on his
Capstan full-strength, we have exchanged nods and one-word greetings.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt 36pt;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt 36pt;">
Anyway, last Wednesday I’m
pushing my supermarket trolley along the fresh-meat aisle when there he is,
nicotine Norman, lumbering towards me.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt 36pt;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt 36pt;">
‘How you doing?’ I say.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt 36pt;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt 36pt;">
‘Fine thanks,’ he replies.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt 36pt;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt 36pt;">
We exchange smiles and proceed
with our weekly shops. I feel pleased with my show of friendliness. </div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt 36pt;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt 36pt;">
No more than a couple of minutes
later, while rummaging in the men’s haircare section, I look up to find Norman
bearing down on me.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt 36pt;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt 36pt;">
‘We must stop meeting like this,’
I say, feeling a bit uncomfortable at my feeble attempt at humour.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt 36pt;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt 36pt;">
‘Yes, people will start to talk,’
he replies.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt 36pt;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt 36pt;">
Fast forward five minutes and the
worst social scenario known to man unfolds next to the fruit and veg: the 3<sup>rd</sup>
meet. I’d exited the frozen-food lane, and taken a sharp left-hander, when I
spot him. He is 20 yards away but approaching fast. A kaleidoscope of questions
rush through my mind: has he seen me?; can I do an about turn without him
noticing?; perhaps I can look down, as if deep in thought, and pass him as if I
haven’t registered his presence?; or maybe I can whip out my mobile phone and
pretend to be immersed in conversation with Mrs Jones?</div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt 36pt;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt 36pt;">
But it’s too late; our eyes meet.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt 36pt;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt 36pt;">
I shrug my shoulders and emit a, ‘Gee-whiz’.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt 36pt;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt 36pt;">
He pulls a strange face, his
mouth curling on one side as if suffering a stroke.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt 36pt;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt 36pt;">
I spread my arms, with open
palms, and grunt.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt 36pt;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt 36pt;">
He shakes his head and smiles, in
that ‘would you believe it?’ way.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt 36pt;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt 36pt;">
Excruciating!</div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt 36pt;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt 36pt;">
Has anyone else endured a third
meet? Or is it just a British thing? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt 36pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt 36pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt 36pt;">
<i>Photo courtesy of renjith krishnan at FreeDigitalPhotos.net</i></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt 36pt;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt 36pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<br /></div>
<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike>Bryan Joneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18193232823492134184noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3053340598207983157.post-16206966211177328662016-04-04T03:38:00.000-07:002016-04-21T02:01:00.549-07:00A review of my life - the concise version<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt 36pt;">
It is often said that people's attention spans are getting shorter, particularly when reading online. With this in mind - plus the fact that I can't be arsed to string a full sentence together - today's ramblings will comprise single-word descriptors (OK pedants, a few phrases and compound words as well) of each decade of my life; a sort of concise, pocket-sized version of my time on planet earth. </div>
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt 36pt;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt 36pt;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfcWG-ADZaPZfeLTi8Yg5kDXilM5L7XWy-QqLw7cn6l7S2CybT8mjtpHKdihG5-xZAmvQM5pfyVmqJpkqs0tDq3SHm2jYrgf9Rx2K2NJpkGVBYpEqmZARxv6hf3ktuFKpqKGt6aMn09gE/s1600/Courtesy+of+Vlado+at+FreeDigitalPhotos.net.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfcWG-ADZaPZfeLTi8Yg5kDXilM5L7XWy-QqLw7cn6l7S2CybT8mjtpHKdihG5-xZAmvQM5pfyVmqJpkqs0tDq3SHm2jYrgf9Rx2K2NJpkGVBYpEqmZARxv6hf3ktuFKpqKGt6aMn09gE/s200/Courtesy+of+Vlado+at+FreeDigitalPhotos.net.jpg" width="200" /></a><b>0 – 10 years</b>: hazy, poo, magical,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>summery,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> Procol Harum, </span>giddy, peeping, kaleidoscope, chips, ice-cream,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Santa, tooth fairy,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>kiss-chase, Dion,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> climbing-rope tingles, doctors-&-nurses & tonsils.</span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfcWG-ADZaPZfeLTi8Yg5kDXilM5L7XWy-QqLw7cn6l7S2CybT8mjtpHKdihG5-xZAmvQM5pfyVmqJpkqs0tDq3SHm2jYrgf9Rx2K2NJpkGVBYpEqmZARxv6hf3ktuFKpqKGt6aMn09gE/s1600/Courtesy+of+Vlado+at+FreeDigitalPhotos.net.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt 36pt;">
<b>11 – 20</b> <b>years</b>: wanking, rejection,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> heartbreak, </span>fear,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>fury,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>idealism,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>wanking,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> Chi-Lites, </span>exploring,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> experimenting,</span>groping, fingering, wanking, Eagles,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>dribbling,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> escaping, wanking, Barley Wine, </span>preening,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>angst,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>puking, posing, pissing & wanking.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfcWG-ADZaPZfeLTi8Yg5kDXilM5L7XWy-QqLw7cn6l7S2CybT8mjtpHKdihG5-xZAmvQM5pfyVmqJpkqs0tDq3SHm2jYrgf9Rx2K2NJpkGVBYpEqmZARxv6hf3ktuFKpqKGt6aMn09gE/s1600/Courtesy+of+Vlado+at+FreeDigitalPhotos.net.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><b>21 – 30 years</b>: shagging, intoxication, studying, shagging, <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>bingeing, all-night parties, achievement, qualifications,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>love, commitment, Leonard Cohen, shagging, poverty,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>worrying & shagging.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt 36pt;">
<b>31 – 40 years</b>: weddings, breeding,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>striving,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>promotion,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>progression,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>frenetic,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>sleepless,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>fathering,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> exhaustion, </span>caring, doting,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>vasectomy & cask ales. </div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt 36pt;">
<b>41 – 50</b><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><b> years</b>: </span>mirror-gazing,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>plucking,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>introspection,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Merlot, fillet steak, trimming, blogging,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> lettuce</span>,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>regretting,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>reflecting & mid-life wobbles..<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike><br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt 36pt;">
<b>51 – 60 years</b>: retiring, writing, publication, walking, Viagra,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>haemorrhoids, greyness,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>drooping, sagging,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>loss, funerals,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>closeness,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>intimacy,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>shrivel,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> Port, </span>aching, holidaying, cruising, spending kids inheritance & contentment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><br />
<br />
What would your life look like in single words or phrases?<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<i>Photo courtesy of Vlado at FreeDigitalPhotos.net</i></div>
<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike>Bryan Joneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18193232823492134184noreply@blogger.com21tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3053340598207983157.post-81965124082102113832016-03-11T06:27:00.001-08:002016-03-11T06:27:49.183-08:00Homicidal wife or tight trousers? You decide<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt 36pt;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgg1NHvaAFrFoHilu8W35elgwAkgij-dMk56jioStWRe2OLAXV_uP23PB5o8jnF4Flo8gajKt1Mhyphenhyphen2PvoPTMjjFH4eY70XfteZRPahAfP27ZkB6EU_EBYCktuDKTn5E-jN7SLO4HE0zB3U/s1600/The+scene+of+the+crime.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgg1NHvaAFrFoHilu8W35elgwAkgij-dMk56jioStWRe2OLAXV_uP23PB5o8jnF4Flo8gajKt1Mhyphenhyphen2PvoPTMjjFH4eY70XfteZRPahAfP27ZkB6EU_EBYCktuDKTn5E-jN7SLO4HE0zB3U/s320/The+scene+of+the+crime.png" width="180" /></a>‘Are you trying to kill me?' I
screamed, rubbing the back of my head and glaring at Mrs Jones.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt 36pt;">
'What are you going on about?'
she said, while nonchalantly opening the front-seat passenger door of our
Toyota RAV.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt 36pt;">
Until this point, it had been a
typical Friday morning: a 30-minute, high-intensity workout on my static
exercise bicycle in our garage, the exertion of which – according to Mrs Jones –
sounds like I’m buggering a pig, particularly one with a tight, serrated arsehole; a shower and
shave while belting out a tuneless rendition of Mr Tambourine Man; slipping
into my favourite black Wranglers, skin tight so as to achieve an agreeably
warm hold on my nether regions while allowing me to maintain the delusion that my compressed
57-year-old butt could attract female attention; and then it was off to Tesco
supermarket to complete the weekly shop.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt 36pt;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgg1NHvaAFrFoHilu8W35elgwAkgij-dMk56jioStWRe2OLAXV_uP23PB5o8jnF4Flo8gajKt1Mhyphenhyphen2PvoPTMjjFH4eY70XfteZRPahAfP27ZkB6EU_EBYCktuDKTn5E-jN7SLO4HE0zB3U/s1600/The+scene+of+the+crime.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a>Grocery mission accomplished, we exited
through the automatic doors and into the carpark. I’m proud of our new car. So
while Mrs Jones pushed the supermarket trolley containing eight hefty bags of
shopping, I played around with my fob-key, one press for unlock and a second to
automatically raise the hatch-back door, both operations delivered from a
distance of 30 yards, no less - I do hope somebody was watching. When we reached
the rear of the car, being a gentleman with traditional values, I offered to
take on the job of loading the car boot (trunk).</div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt 36pt;">
The luggage space is a deep one
on a Toyota RAV so it required a 90-degree bend to push the heaviest bag into
the far corner of the recess. While in this vulnerable, submissive position (with pouting buttocks straining to greet fellow shoppers and torso immersed in the depths of the boot) I heard a whirring noise; someone had pressed the key fob and the hatch-back door had started to close. Images pushed into my mind of being guillotined
at the waist, with my severed legs twitching on the floor like a scene from
some gruesome horror movie. I sharply retreated from the bowels of the boot
only to strike my head on the descending door.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt 36pt;">
***</div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt 36pt;">
So who was responsible for my near-death experience? Despite my wife's protestations, I
still harbour my suspicions. Two electronic key fobs lurked in the vicinity of
the car that morning, one in Mrs Jones’ possession and the other safely ensconced in
the front pocket of my tackle-hugging Wranglers.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt 36pt;">
I’m off now to check whether she’s
bumped up the value of my life-assurance policy. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<br />
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<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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<br /></div>
Bryan Joneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18193232823492134184noreply@blogger.com22tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3053340598207983157.post-62806792090317393142016-02-26T04:13:00.000-08:002016-02-26T04:13:32.010-08:00A lady's guide to controlling a man's erection
I’ve been thinking about my penis again. <o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
This treasured male organ is arguably the most complicated,
and least understood, piece of a chap’s body. Nevertheless, the knowledge of
the factors controlling its rise and fall - whether it will puff out its chest
and stand proud or burrow into the folds of the bollocks – can bestow ladies
with a level of power that could dwarf the wizardry of Hermione in the Harry
Potter films.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEju_BkTawev2kz8lFH22EjZ30oHyP7GcIViBxRhxAoLB6_U2WTMhcQlD3vu4EZJSKRKFW86Fd3QvCE_fsX4JeCZ9Ek5QGT5kSXbLRUM2mJt03YyE2u9dX0se5IPYVHlsJD2ZjgNKnLq9bg/s1600/Courtesy+of+FreeDigitalPhotos.net.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="142" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEju_BkTawev2kz8lFH22EjZ30oHyP7GcIViBxRhxAoLB6_U2WTMhcQlD3vu4EZJSKRKFW86Fd3QvCE_fsX4JeCZ9Ek5QGT5kSXbLRUM2mJt03YyE2u9dX0se5IPYVHlsJD2ZjgNKnLq9bg/s200/Courtesy+of+FreeDigitalPhotos.net.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
<br />
So here it is, the woman’s guide to how to control your
man’s erection. Used wisely, your partner’s todger will inflate or deflate as
you so wish, like a balloon permanently attached to your pump. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">1. Flirting & teasing</b><o:p></o:p></div>
Subtle flirting, with your
beloved and other men, can send a tidal wave of blood towards your partner’s
willy.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Sitting next to your dearest on
the settee in the evening, clad only in a silky negligee, can often achieve
good results. Importantly, he must know that you are not wearing any underwear;
even though he’s seen your lady bits a thousand times, the knowledge of what is
hiding a few inch above a flowery hemline can send the male of the species into
a frenzy.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
As for other men, an awareness
that you can still attract testosterone-fuelled attention can be a turn on –
maybe it’s something to do with a primitive instinct to compete for access to
the on-heat female. The sight of the plumber glancing at Mrs Jones’ luscious
arse, or a breast wobble, certainly can get my heater running, and I’m sure
this doesn’t just apply to me. Does it? Really? <o:p></o:p><br />
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"></b><br />
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">2. Pre-sex comments</b><o:p></o:p><br />
When sexual activity is imminent,
and the man lets the beast out of the cage – or in my case, when I seductively
slip out of my off-white, gusset-worn briefs – the woman’s immediate reaction
can determine whether it’s going to be a lusty marathon of uninhibited passion
or a floppy 60-metre dash.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Facial expressions conveying awe
are always welcome, particularly when accompanied by comments implying that the
item swinging between the man’s legs is big enough to do some harm if driven by
an irresponsible owner; ‘wow, what’s got into that big boy’ or ‘be gentle with
me’ never fail to encourage further engorgement of the male organ. <o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
In contrast, statements often
used in response to a baby or a puppy – ‘ah look at him, how cute’ or ‘isn’t he
adorable’ – will ensure the meat shrivels as quickly as a salted slug.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<o:p>3. </o:p><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Gas emissions<o:p></o:p></b></div>
Ladies, you may have shared the
same bed with him for decades, but farting or belching during coitus are a
definite no-no. The smell of gas, from either end of the digestive tract, will
stun a stout erection like a taser, leaving it twitchy and limp.<o:p></o:p><br />
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"></b><br />
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">4. Grasp his weapon with both hands</b><o:p></o:p><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_dr0vO83XCh_DyykNL6L_dGwaA0SLOTtZ5tuMUSM4CNOuHIC7C29WzRcf1Gp2BAkEE3saT1y5BIYNvpEhj3novY1_BgTU886n2ojQ1_C_2JxkTLkwcSYRLmHb98FCkXeldl1yG2kM4Yk/s1600/Courtesy+of+artzsamui+at+FreeDigitalPhotos.net.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="145" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_dr0vO83XCh_DyykNL6L_dGwaA0SLOTtZ5tuMUSM4CNOuHIC7C29WzRcf1Gp2BAkEE3saT1y5BIYNvpEhj3novY1_BgTU886n2ojQ1_C_2JxkTLkwcSYRLmHb98FCkXeldl1yG2kM4Yk/s200/Courtesy+of+artzsamui+at+FreeDigitalPhotos.net.jpg" width="200" /></a>Irrespective of what the
agony-aunts say, size matters. At least it does in the male mind, where a
belief that heavy weaponry will be involved is essential to sustain an
erection. <o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
So, ladies, when you grab his
willy don’t use a finger and thumb; that gives the impression of micro work,
like threading cotton through a needle. Instead grab his todger with both
hands, one above the other, as if about to climb a rope. Granted, in my case
this may require David-Blaine-like illusionary skills and a degree of finger
dexterity worthy of a professional hand-puppeteer, but the deception will
always be rewarded with enhanced sexual performance. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
5. <strong>Mid-coitus noises</strong><o:p></o:p></div>
In the midst of sexual abandon,
orgasmic female cries – genuine or otherwise – will keep the phallic embers
burning. Silence gives the impression (probably accurate in Mrs Jones’ case)
that the lady’s mind has drifted and rather than being immersed in the pleasure
of your lusty lunges, she is instead considering what colour of varnish she’ll
put on her nails in the morning. <o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
And some mid-sex comments must be
avoided. Speaking from personal experience, guaranteed willy-softeners include:
‘Are you in yet?’; ‘Can you keep your mouth shut, you’re spitting all over me’;
and ‘Will you cut your toe-nails – they’re like fucking talons!’.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">6. Skin scratching<o:p></o:p></b></div>
Urgent clawing of the male
buttocks indicates that the lady is enjoying herself and, as such, sustains the
blood flow to man’s fifth limb. Superficial scratches down the back - as long
as they don’t cause haemorrhage and divert blood flow from where it’s most
needed – are also helpful in instilling the primitive, animalistic dimension to
the sexual act that men find so arousing.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
A definite no-no, however, is
inflicting pain on the meat and two veg. Ballocks are meant to be caressed and
cradled, not grabbed and twisted. And fingernails piercing the todger is a
sure-fire way of transforming a throbbing phallus into a wet straw.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<br />
So, ladies, there you have it;
the knowledge and power to forever control the male member. What better skill
could you wish for? Your welcome.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<em>Photos courtesy of: interphasesolution at FreeDigitalPhotos.net</em><br />
<em> arztsamui at FreeDigitalPhotos.net</em><br />
<br />
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<o:p> </o:p></div>
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<o:p> </o:p></div>
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<o:p> </o:p></div>
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<o:p> </o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<o:p> </o:p></div>
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<o:p> </o:p></div>
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<o:p> </o:p></div>
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<o:p> </o:p></div>
Bryan Joneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18193232823492134184noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3053340598207983157.post-69683243381759834092016-02-04T01:54:00.000-08:002016-02-04T01:54:31.913-08:00Women don't fart<br />
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt 36pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">Sharing an office with Suzanne had many advantages.</span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnDO05kqq0J7mgA766SlN-SodcjlsENRMAzCbxEasmOWgU5VAUfe9yyPPiAjmAMa9Ogop-YpS3n62xDCz9Kiomce7LiCHMIMjQ-bVxlYqFGpohhSxQfNPRsaRbrvGXyP7VUWvnonra0Fo/s1600/Courtesy+of+stockimages+at+FreeDigitalPhotos.net+3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnDO05kqq0J7mgA766SlN-SodcjlsENRMAzCbxEasmOWgU5VAUfe9yyPPiAjmAMa9Ogop-YpS3n62xDCz9Kiomce7LiCHMIMjQ-bVxlYqFGpohhSxQfNPRsaRbrvGXyP7VUWvnonra0Fo/s200/Courtesy+of+stockimages+at+FreeDigitalPhotos.net+3.jpg" width="132" /></a></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><br />
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt 36pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">In her early 30s, with shoulder-length auburn hair and
full figure, she brightened my working week. Indeed, she kindled all my five senses.
My 50-year-old eyes feasted on her taut buttocks and fulsome breasts – but only
when she was occupied and wouldn’t notice my attention; I’m a gentleman and
wouldn’t wish to make her feel uncomfortable nor for her, God forbid, to conclude
that I was indulging in unwholesome thoughts. Her gentle voice caressed my
eardrums with intelligent commentary on work-related issues. And as for smell,
her entry into the office was always followed by a delightful waft of Opium
perfume mingled with herbal-essence shampoo. Alas, the touching and tasting
only happened within the confines of my imagination.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt 36pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">But there is one major drawback of sharing an office
with a woman: you can’t fart. Amongst males, one can let an audible one fly,
apologise, and carry on as normal. But with females around, gassy emissions are
prohibited.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt 36pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">Contrary to what you read in biology textbooks and on
social media, pretty women never fart. Nor do they defecate. It is a
little-known fact that females’ waste products, and associated gases, evaporate
from the tops of their heads and smell like hairspray.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt 36pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">One morning in the office, Suzanne at the adjacent
desk, I felt the ominous stomach rumble, like the extended growl of thunder
prior to an electric storm. A swirling vortex of noxious gas was demanding
release and accelerating towards my arse. And I knew it would produce a stench
of eye-watering intensity - six pints of finest cask ale the night before would
see to that - so slipping it out silently was not an option.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt 36pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">‘I’ll pop out and photocopy this document’ I said,
while rising from my chair and grabbing the nearest piece of paper from the
desk.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt 36pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">‘Do you want me to do it later?’ asked Suzanne. ‘I’ve
got a lot of photocopying to do and …’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt 36pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">‘No it’s OK’, I interrupted, already exiting the
office.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt 36pt;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh65iOzGBBBmYPoI7-EY02VZLetMlCRtOts4OOiRM-jGZ97dyOzI5KZ8rayxkEIqULeR2pjo2uNKyzLRQ1Vrrph8MP-hxdWd7h7fz4aQygdzD27xxih84WD_rZs00EfhA3nVXth5eGmdIs/s1600/Courtesy+of+Stuart+Miles+-+FreeDigitalPhotos8.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh65iOzGBBBmYPoI7-EY02VZLetMlCRtOts4OOiRM-jGZ97dyOzI5KZ8rayxkEIqULeR2pjo2uNKyzLRQ1Vrrph8MP-hxdWd7h7fz4aQygdzD27xxih84WD_rZs00EfhA3nVXth5eGmdIs/s200/Courtesy+of+Stuart+Miles+-+FreeDigitalPhotos8.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">Clenching my buttocks, I scampered along the corridor
to the deserted photocopying room and closed the door behind me. In the privacy
of this oasis, I leaned forward, hands on my thighs, and prepared to let rip. But
nothing happened. As with other bodily functions – urinating in the doctor’s
bottle, achieving an erection during one’s first sexual encounter – the process
of breaking wind can, paradoxically, fail to deliver when you most need it to.
On this occasion, my intestinal cyclone of noxious vapour had performed a
U-turn and burrowed into the depths of my gut. I loitered a couple of minutes
beside the photocopier, expecting the stomach rumble to return, but the gas
showed no sign of a seeking a reappearance.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt 36pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">Deflated in mood, if not in body, I returned to my
office. As I entered I noticed Suzanne’s cheeks had turned crimson. Unusually,
she did not look up to acknowledge my presence, instead maintaining an
unwavering focus on her computer screen. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt 36pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">And then it hit me. A rancid mix of rotting egg and semi-digested
cabbage clung to the inside of my nostrils. My embarrassment was palpable with
the horrific realisation that, unknown to me, my fart must have slipped out
during my hasty exit. After all, what other possible explanation could there
be?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;"><em></em></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;"><em></em></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;"><em>Photos courtesy of: Stockimages at FreeDigitalPhotos .net</em></span><br />
<em> Stuart Miles at FreeDigitalPhotos.net</em></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
Bryan Joneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18193232823492134184noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3053340598207983157.post-70344041946687403222015-12-11T03:21:00.001-08:002015-12-11T03:21:29.283-08:00It used to be fun
For each of the last 25 years Mrs Jones and I have invited
our parents to our home for Christmas dinner. This time we’ve made a momentous
decision: it’s not happening! <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> <table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgltl_MLNwt639Z8VKAWbty4xKly1lGrYZ5DmkBaEmdOfxJMgGToBsbalQNbxO_hoQ1V-Ezn08G9EC0cCYbBujoVO8dTJnVdgU4fcbMgyA2_7GmPoCAtiRRvsXuj_bJF4oAq-Y4_d_Yv44/s1600/Courtesy+of+Apolonia+at+FreeDigitalPhotos.net.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="132" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgltl_MLNwt639Z8VKAWbty4xKly1lGrYZ5DmkBaEmdOfxJMgGToBsbalQNbxO_hoQ1V-Ezn08G9EC0cCYbBujoVO8dTJnVdgU4fcbMgyA2_7GmPoCAtiRRvsXuj_bJF4oAq-Y4_d_Yv44/s200/Courtesy+of+Apolonia+at+FreeDigitalPhotos.net.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Courtesy of Apolonia at<br />
FreeDigitalPhotos.net</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</span><o:p></o:p><br />
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It used to be fun. Those hours spent in the kitchen
preparing the traditional feast would be rewarded later in the day by a sense
of mischief and family togetherness: in the early years, the kids excitedly
introducing their grandparents to their favourite gifts from Santa; the
grown-ups engaging in alcohol-fuelled banter around the meal table; and
poignant reminiscing in the evening about the tales of our own childhoods,
stories that still amused despite yearly repetition.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkgPHe3SEbPS-q7VPO8UZUepIJ-wgqCcTM-3nAwvVXZDFyWmaCCJMU0Md-4ftmmkPvo89mM0B_FunTNnK1CZdd2pY-wKRYzOisA139UVS_ktE7h7apk-bBKCHM_PqZ9lrO5LsLKTOsvBg/s1600/Danny.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkgPHe3SEbPS-q7VPO8UZUepIJ-wgqCcTM-3nAwvVXZDFyWmaCCJMU0Md-4ftmmkPvo89mM0B_FunTNnK1CZdd2pY-wKRYzOisA139UVS_ktE7h7apk-bBKCHM_PqZ9lrO5LsLKTOsvBg/s200/Danny.JPG" width="150" /></a></div>
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The decline started with the death of my father-in-law a
decade ago. We all miss Henry; his whacky comments about ‘the good old days’,
delivered in a dialect that only his trusted inner circle could understand,
always generated a lively debate, and one couldn’t help but recognise that –
despite some of his more extreme pronouncements –<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>underneath, there lived a kind, generous
human being. More recently his widow, Sheila, has succumbed to that terrible,
dignity-stripping brain disease called Alzheimer’s, her memory for new events
lasting no longer than a few seconds. Although my own parents, both in their
mid-80s, are in good physical health, my mother is profoundly deaf and my
father is obsessed with his Golden Retriever to such a degree that he feels
increasingly uncomfortable about leaving his beloved dog at home alone for
longer than a couple of hours.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Typically, while Mrs Jones and I – clad in psychedelically-coloured pinafores
and sweating like condemned convicts on death row - slice carrots and baste
turkey in the kitchen, in the living room bizarre goings-on are afoot:<o:p></o:p></div>
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<o:p> </o:p><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Sheila</i>: ‘Has Ryan
(25-year-old grandson) got a girlfriend yet?’<o:p></o:p></div>
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<o:p> </o:p><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Mum</i>: ‘Sorry,
Sheila, I’m a bit deaf – you’ll have to speak up.’<o:p></o:p></div>
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<o:p> </o:p><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Sheila</i>: ‘Has Ryan
got himself a girlfriend yet?’<o:p></o:p></div>
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<o:p> </o:p><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Mum</i>:<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> (turning to face dad)</i>: ‘What’s she
saying, Harry?’<o:p></o:p></div>
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<o:p> </o:p><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Dad</i>:<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> (stroking his eyebrow while lost in in deep
thought about the current wellbeing of his dog)</i>’What was who saying?’<o:p></o:p></div>
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Mum</i>: ‘Sheila has
asked me something.’<o:p></o:p><br />
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<o:p> </o:p><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Dad</i>: ‘What did you
say, Sheila?’<o:p></o:p></div>
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<o:p> </o:p><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Sheila</i>: ‘Has Ryan
got himself a girlfriend yet?’<o:p></o:p></div>
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<o:p> </o:p><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Dad (turning to face
mum)</i>: ‘She’s asking if our Ryan has got himself a girlfriend yet.’<o:p></o:p></div>
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<o:p> </o:p><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Mum (turning back to
face Sheila)</i>: Oh, yes – he’s got himself a lovely young lady called Faith.
They’ve been together for over a year.’<o:p></o:p></div>
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<o:p> </o:p><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Sheila</i>: ‘Very
good.’<o:p></o:p></div>
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<o:p> </o:p>[SILENCE FOR 15 SECONDS]<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
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<o:p> </o:p><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Sheila</i>: ‘Has Ryan
got himself a girlfriend yet?’<o:p></o:p></div>
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<o:p> </o:p></div>
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In the aftermath of Christmas 2014, it struck me: no one is
enjoying this habitual façade, so why are we subjecting ourselves to it? So
this year, at 4.00 pm on the 25<sup>th</sup> December the family (me, Mrs
Jones, our parents and our two 20-something children) will be secreted around a
table in the local tavern being served the traditional Christmas dinner,
swilled down with copious quantities of fine wine. After two hours, a minibus
will collect us and return us all to my home where we will, in turn, select
golden-oldie tunes from You-tube and reminisce. At 8.30 pm the minibus will
return and take our parents home – much to the relief of our parents, as well as the Golden
Retriever – leaving Mrs Jones and I some quality time to devote to our two
wonderful offspring and each other.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Sorted! <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<o:p> </o:p></div>
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<o:p> </o:p></div>
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<o:p> </o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<o:p> </o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<o:p> </o:p></div>
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<o:p> </o:p></div>
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<o:p> </o:p></div>
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<o:p> </o:p></div>
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<o:p> </o:p></div>
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<o:p> </o:p></div>
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<o:p> </o:p></div>
Bryan Joneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18193232823492134184noreply@blogger.com21