Chris was sat at his computer this morning when he noticed something rather rude out of the corner of his eye. Laughing, he brought it into the kitchen to show me and I couldn’t resist photographing it for you. Chris held the little dustpan in exactly the same place where it had fallen onto the sheet of sandpaper when it was on his desk.
“Are you alright Mum,” I asked.
“Well, I was quite happy sat here by the door until a man came up to me,” answered Mum intriguingly.
We were in Tescos Newton Abbot store at the time. Mum was looking very sweet, wearing her candy-stripe frock and pink straw hat, and sat on a pile of boxes containing Masterchef barbecues.
“Look,” said Chris with a chuckle, “your mum is on sale for forty-five pounds!”
A short while later we were going home in the car and Mum said:
“I didn’t like it when the man came up to me.”
“He probably thought you looked cute,” I suggested.
“No, he asked me if I was alright,” Mum replied in a hurt voice, “and he asked if anyone was coming to pick me up. It made me feel old.”
“What did you answer, Mum?”
“I just said ‘Yes’ and turned away from him,” Mum sounded sad.
“Maybe he was the opposite of a paedophile – a nonagenarianphile? – and he was grooming you, Mum,” I joked.
“A geriatricaphile,” helped Chris (with his greater knowledge).
“Who would be that mad?” asked Mum after a moments conjecture.
“You’d be surprised,” I said, “there are quite a few men who fancy old ladies!”
“Perhaps I should have said ‘No’ then,” Mum quipped and we all laughed.
I had been in bed for some minutes, long enough for my eyes to grow accustomed to the dark, when someone entered my bedroom. I can’t say that it was unexpected; actually, I have to own that I had been hoping for this circumstance.
“I suppose you want to sleep with me,” I said provocatively to the large dark figure who was by now almost at my bedside.
There was no answer. There was no requirement, other than the physical response, and soon I felt a gorgeous muscular body against me; it pressed so hard that I was pushed to edge of the big four-poster bed.
“Calm down,” I whispered, “and give me a bit more room.”
Still no reply, but my hands recognised the feel of smooth velvety skin, which was blacker than the night outside the window. And although I couldn’t see the deep brown eyes or facial features, I knew them well.
In the initial excitement we tossed and turned – on our backs, sideways and diagonally – but at length, we lay close like spoons that fit perfectly against one another. We were about to fall asleep when someone else came into the bedroom. The small figure approached the high wooden side of my bed and nudged me tentatively.
“I suppose you want to sleep with me too?” I asked.
Yet again, no words but there was an affirmation in the silence. I helped the white-haired figure onto the bed and the dark one, slightly put out, nevertheless made room for the venerable one.
There was much kissing, petting, licking, and getting into comfortable positions, after which we three we were finally ready to sleep. Before sleep came I said a little prayer to myself:
“Please don’t let the other two come in!”
And they didn’t. We all know that that five in a bed doesn’t work – we already tried it on another occasion that I slept over at the farm. Even a king-sized four-poster doesn’t have room for three big black Labradors, a Yorkshire terrier and me!
If you thought “The Laughing Policeman” was funny, you should like this! Just click on the image and you’ll be in Youtube…
This is the actual recording of a message I sent last night to one of my friends in Australia. It was past midnight and I was rather tired but I had a fit of the giggles after hearing again the previous recording I had made, which was incredibly loud (and I didn’t know how to alter the sound levels at that point).
I noticed also that it might seem strange to my friend that I had begun writing epic poems on the subject of “Love crimes”. Of course, it will be a major work as I am a descendant of the great Dorset poet, William Barnes who, it is said, would have been up with Shakespeare in the literary stakes had he not been such a stickler for writing in the Dorset dialect; he had hoped to keep it alive by his writings, but was unsuccessful. I hope I shall be more successful with my own stab at my future poems,”Love Crimes”. Naturally, I shall be changing the title after publishing this audio film on Youtube, and you can be sure also that I shall not be using my real name!
My friend Sally, who lives in Cyprus these days, but is in Turkey on holiday at the moment, sent me some lovely pictures today. I was particularly smitten by the arcades shaded by rows of colourful parasols – what a wonderful and apt idea! Then I got to thinking what happens to umbrellas when a strong gust of wind gets under them…
On the Internet one thing leads quickly on to another and I soon found myself in the windy weddings section…
John-the-roofer and his mate were on the roof perhaps forty feet above me while I was skimming the cracked lower steps with new cement. This was several years ago when we had our big works done to the house and the new roof was going on, and we hadn’t tiled the old steps yet. I didn’t know the roofer’s surname; Mr Murphy, the building contractor, had introduced the roofer only as “John from Torquay” and the young roofer apprentice wasn’t introduced at all.
If, like me, you expect a roofer to be built like a grasshopper or, at most, like a tall jockey, you’d have quite the wrong mental image of John-the-roofer, who was a big burly man with little or no hair and a big booming voice to match his frame. Strangely, the booming voice was incomprehensible to our ears as it sounded like it was coming through fifty feet of drainpipe.
It was summer and sunny, which was why the roof was going on during that week and why, on that particular day, I chose to work outside. Every so often, while I was occupied with my trowel on the wet cement, I heard above me the loud and incoherent sound of John the roofer’s drainpipe voice giving orders to his twenty-year-old apprentice. At around midday I was mixing up some new cement when I heard the younger man ask:
“What are you having for lunch Shag Nasty?”
“Did I hear right?” I thought to myself, a bit shocked, and I waited for a response.
To my even greater surprise, John-the-roofer replied in his normal unintelligible tones, no louder or with any sound of irritation.
I decided that my hearing was playing tricks on me.
A few minutes passed and the apprentice piped up again:
“Think I’ll have a nice steak tonight. What about you Shag Nasty?” he couldn’t contain a little laugh.
This time I was convinced. For a moment or two I felt upset for poor John-the-roofer from Torquay, then I was indignant on his behalf, and finally, when I got to thinking about how a man could come to be dubbed with such a horrible nickname (there was nothing much else to consider whilst mixing concrete), I wanted to laugh aloud. I went inside and did so. I came back outside, got the giggles, and went indoors again to have a good laugh without incensing or hurting the feelings of John (alias Shag Nasty).
At length, after several more “Shag Nasty” comments (all said apparently quite casually, without malice or sarcasm) and corresponding bouts of giggles from me, I managed to finish my work and went to look for Chris.
“The young roofer kept calling John-the-roofer ‘Mr Shag Nasty’ or just ‘Shag Nasty’,” I whispered to Chris, “Did you hear them?”.
“No! And no.”
“Yes!” I said, “and he didn’t seem upset – not that I could understand because to me he always sounds like he’s talking through a fifty foot drainpipe. What can it mean?”
“They could probably see you working on the steps and were having a bit of fun trying to shock you and see your response,” suggested Chris.
I agreed that might have been the case but then I saw an additional possibility…
“I wonder if John’s surname is Shaughnessy?”
~~~~~~~
While I’m on the subject of the name Shaughnessy I’d like to tell you about two others of the Shaughnessy clan.
Patrick Shaughnessy was a member of the highly successful Texan contingent who made their vast millions from cattle and oil. When at last Patrick felt wealthy and secure enough to leave his holdings in the hands of others for six months, he decided to take a well-earned holiday and travel the world to meet up with his cousins around the globe. He ended up on the cattle station owned by his cousin Paddy out at Winton, far West Queensland.
After an hour or two the novelty of entertaining the American cousin had worn off for Paddy. He had tired of the fact that anything he mentioned was bettered and outdone by the Texan. If he said he owned one helicopter, Patrick had two – plus a private jet. His 15,000 square kilometres could apparently fit in the Texan’s “back yard – and then some!” Patrick boasted of pocketing $5,000,000 each year (after tax) while Paddy admitted to earning a paltry $500,000.
The cousins were enjoying a couple of gallons of beer out on the verandah when a red kangaroo jumped over one wall of the front enclosure, hopped past the swimming pool and the AstroTurf lawn, then jumped over the opposite wall and was gone. It happened so quickly and unexpectedly that the American cousin wondered what it was.
“Say cous’, what in the heck was that?” asked Patrick.
“Well, I’ll be blowed,” began Paddy, “Don’t you get grasshoppers in Texas?”
“I wonder what’s happening to Chris,” said Katie with a worried look (she’s such a caring niece).
“I hope they aren’t amputating his leg,” I grinned and we laughed.
“He’s been in there for an awfully long time…” added Katie.
“Yes, he has been in with his doctor for much longer than you were with yours,” I agreed. “I reckon there are doors on the other side – maybe they are giving him a scan – or maybe he fainted and they are resuscitating him!”
At that moment the doctor’s door opened a few inches and a blond curly head peeked through the gap and beckoned me over.
“How’s Katie?” asked Chris.
“Broken finger – Mary was right – what about you?”
“I’ve been waiting for a nurse to come for ages,” said my husband, “just look – I have a normal knee again. He drained it.”
Chris sat down on the couch and held up his leg, which was bright yellow from thigh to calf. I stifled a laugh.
“I know, the doctor put on too much iodine; that’s why the nurse is coming along – to clean off the excess and put on a Tubi-grip.”
“What did he say?” I asked.
“He apologised for putting on too much iodine,” Chris joked, “and he told me there was nothing wrong with the joint. The water collected as a result of the initial brunt when I came off my bike onto the pavement but there is no hidden damage.”
The nurse came in and it was quite interesting to watch her measure out a hose of Tubi-grip from ankle to thigh and back again. Then she had to stretch it over a round metal framework – I helped.
“You’ll soon have that off,” said the nurse with a knowing smile, “it gets quite hot!”
“It’s rather hot,” said Chris as we all walked out the front door into the fresh air and sunshine.
“Think I’ll take my sling off,” announced Katie, “or Mum will worry.”
“I thought it was midnight in there,” I squinted to shield my eyes from the bright outdoors.
“It’s only about a quarter to seven,” marvelled Katie, “it seemed like about ten hours.”
“Let me take a nice photo of you two,” I suggested.
And Kate and Chris obliged good-heartedly. Chris’s stockinged leg reminded me of a cross between Widow Twanky, the pantomime dame, and King Henry VIII when he was ill with gout; nevertheless, he put his best foot forward just for the fun of it. Half an hour later my sister Mary and my nephew James also put a best foot and broken finger forward when it was suggested that all wounded family members present should be photographed together for posterity, which is why I was the photographer.
The hungry foxes finished off all the ducks, hens and even the young usurper cockerel down at Rosie’s farm where Mary and I sometimes farm-sit; poor old Harry the grief-stricken pig, too, passed away… but now there is new life in the form of two adorable fluffy baby llamas.
The benevolent old tree in the centre of the field on the hill looks on. When last I looked, just over a week ago, it provided shade and tender grass for the heavily pregnant mothers; no doubt it takes some pride in the proceedings below.
Thanks for this very Australian joke go to Roland from Brisbane.
The Randy Old Couple
A couple of pensioners from out west went to a doctor.
“We have a little problem of a sexual nature,” said the septuagenarian fellow with a sheepish grin, “and we were wondering if we could do it here and you could see if we’re doing it right.”
“But I’m a normal doctor, not a sex therapist!” exclaimed the doctor.
“We know but we were hoping that we could get a first opinion from you,” said the old woman, who seemed quite determined.
So the doctor agreed and the old couple performed with great vigour and lustiness.
“I don’t think you have any sexual problem – your sex life is better than mine,” said the doctor.
“Yes we do,” answered the old man, “it just happened to work out alright this time. Maybe we could come back next week and try again so you can see what we mean?”
Reluctantly, and against the doctor’s inclination (he was no pervert), he at length agreed to another visit of the same nature. Once again, the repeat performance was perfectly normal and lusty. But, yet again, the couple argued that they were a genuine case and implored the doctor to agree to another appointment. The third attempt proved equally as successful and the doctor was suspicious of the couple’s motives.
“You certainly don’t have any sexual problems, ” the doctor said annoyed, “in fact I suspect that you get some perverse pleasure in having me watch you perform.”
“How dare you!” said the old woman and then she turned to the old man, “Tell him!”
“Well, we do have a real problem – we ain’t liars. The truth is that if I take her home to my house the wife is there, and if she takes me home to her house the husband is there; if we went to a motel it would cost us over a hundred dollars and if we come to you it only costs thirty dollars… and we get fifteen dollars back from Medicare!”