Further back in time
Grandad July 27th, 2007
I know I said the 70’s, but why not the 60’s too?
Archive for July, 2007
I want to find a woman
Grandad July 26th, 2007
I was browsing around a few blogs a while ago.
I came across a link on Damien Mulley’s site.
It shows a world clock that shows people dying and being born and how they are dying.
What worries me is the Birth line. Somewhere in the world, there is a woman who is firing out babies faster than an Uzi fires bullets.
We must find this woman and tell her about birth control. Or we can set Dr Michael Neary on her?
Getting ahead
Grandad July 26th, 2007
She was young. She was beautiful. She had long blond hair, and a figure that any Irishman would drool into his pint over.
She stroked my head.
“Are you comfortable?” she asked.
“Very.” said I.
“You just lie back and relax” she said softly as she pulled the sheets up.
She started caressing me. I could feel her fingers massaging me. It was very pleasant.
“Is that all right for you?” she said softly in my ear.
“Lovely!” said I.
I could feel myself getting wet and hot.
Her hands moved faster. Her fingertips did wonders.
She was working herself up into a frenzy.
“Is it too hot for you?” she said, huskily.
“It’s lovely” I said again.
All too soon it was over.
“Right” said she. “That’s your wash done. If you’d like to sit over here, Jenny will be over in a minute to cut your hair.”
Odds and Ends
Grandad July 25th, 2007
“Are you going down to the village today” says Herself.
“Nah. I’m not going out at all today. I have a very bad feeling.”
“What do you mean? Feeling?”
“I just know something very bad is going to happen if I go out.”
“Like what?”
“I just know that if I drive down to the village I am going to be killed.”
“What??”
“If I drive today, I am going to come to the crossroads. There will be a woman driving a BMW on the other road. She will be talking on her mobile, and as she comes to the crossroads, she will drop her lipstick that she’s applying using the rear-view mirror. She will bend down to pick it up and will drive straight past the stop sign and into me. I’ll be pushed into the path of an oncoming bus and will be mangled against the wall. Dead. Or a vegetable for the rest of my life.”
” That’s stupid.”
“Why? It can happen.”
“But the odds on that happening are ridiculously small. One in a thousand. Or more like one in a million.”
“But it could happen?”
“Look,” says Herself patiently “with those odds, it just isn’t going to happen. Forget about it. You have a higher chance of being struck by lightning.”
“I suppose you’re right. What did you want in the village anyway?
“I wanted to buy a lottery ticket.”
The most insane story of the week?
Grandad July 24th, 2007
I was browsing the Sunday Times and came across a little snippet.
I’m sure they wont mind me stealing robbing borrowing it ……
Council officials have warned a woman that birds in her garden are singing too loudly. Environmental health officers told Dorothy Berry, 65, that the blackbirds in her trees were upsetting neighbours in Fulham, west London.
“I have a lovely garden in which the blackbirds sing in the trees. But I really don’t see what we can do about that.”
What?
These morons are complaining about blackbirds?
This is so stupid, it just has to be true.
I don’t know which is worse - the neighbours, for complaining, or the council for listening to them.
I’d ram the neighbours’ iPods up their backsides and play Status Quo at them at full volume for a week.
They might appreciate the beauty of a blackbird then.
The decline of the village
Grandad July 24th, 2007
I went down to the village again for coffee yesterday.
This is getting to be a habit.
As I sat in the sun, supped my coffee and puffed the pipe with Sandy sitting at my feet, I contemplated village life.
When I first moved here [long before most of you were born], it was just a little country village. I was treated as a ‘blow-in’ at first and was tolerated with politeness. It was a close knit community where everyone knew everyone else and outsiders were treated with a little suspicion.
I moved away for some years, without losing my village connections, and am back again. The place has changed. The village is much the same but houses are springing up in the surrounding area. The new ‘blow-ins’ are all so impressed to be living the village life, but they don’t understand what village life is.
Their community consists of the golf club or the tennis club. They sit in the village and arrange dinner parties [at the top of their voices so that we are in no doubt what they are talking about] on their mobile phones. Of course, they all drive SUVs. They talk [again, as loudly as possible] how they are just back from Thailand and can’t wait to get to Marbella next month.
The village is infested with affluenza.
Those of us from ‘the old days’ are now firm friends. We are sticking together like animals in a dwindling clump of rain forest.
We know our days are numbered.
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