Husbandry

Previously I’d found it only to be older men who referred to their spouses ominously as ‘the wife’, the words typically uttered while despondently studying the bottom of a pint glass, accompanied by what the casual listener may understand to be a complaint against their life-long companion, but on careful examination can only be interpreted as a spiritless appeal for emotional support in their day-to-day drudgery and inner emptiness.

Then I heard a 24 year old, with barely a whisker to his name, sighing ‘…the wife’, as though consciously realising for the first time that he was married, that he didn’t want to be, and that he had no viable option other than to knuckle down and see who died first.

With kids ‘growing up’ (= getting into trouble by themselves) so fast ‘these days’ (= since recorded history began) perhaps it is only justice that misery should also start younger.

A Blogger's Plea

Any comments or questions?
Maybe constructive suggestions?
Though I like to jest
You are my guest
And I'd welcome friendly directions

Devil's brew advocated

I heard recently that alcoholism is a disease, and has no connection with an individual deciding how much alcohol they drink.

While I appreciate that there are probably nuances to this idea which I haven’t delved into, my instinct says the concept of alcoholism as disease is best described thus:

‘…the idea is as a tramp in the gutter, serenading the bemused ambulance crew with a 19th century temperance ballad, while slurping whiskey from a bottle in a wet plastic carrier bag…’ - Sockrates

I once knew a man who, when someone joked about him having ‘a drinking problem’, would jokingly reply, ‘it’s not necessarily a problem, hic.’ He drank lots, died at 50 due to drinking lots, and while this may have prevented a few post-50 problems, I don’t think it was really the solution he was hoping for.

England's chances ruined by rain

A steaming hot day in Tunbridge Wells was tempered by a brief and welcome shower.

A rather cute American visitor to this isle was so delighted she could not contain her exclamation.

‘Oh my gahd it’s raaaaaining,’ she announced, peering into the heavens, ‘but that’s just sooo English!’ she climaxed.

‘You’re quite right,’ I said, ‘it’s a traditional English ceremony, we’ve put on this rain especially.’

This is me trying to ‘reach out’. I do it sometimes.

Sometimes an expression of surprised joy and an expression of surprised disgust can be very similar. I make mistakes sometimes.

'Is the temperature OK for you?' I offered. 'I can get them to adjust it if you like’.

The babe looked suddenly nauseous and turned away from me, I thought to be sick. Now I saw she had one of these mobile phone tooth things that sits on your ear.

'Urgh, this guy, he just started talking to me, are you far away?'

You can't fight in here! This is... oh, never mind...

Phone call done, time for me to pedal off my merry way (to safety).

But one of the youths broke off from the fight. He had other ideas.

‘Hey mate, why’d you call the police?’

‘Well, you lot are rolling around like dogs. Someone’s going to get hurt!’

‘Oh yeah, yeah. Safe!’ He gave a thumbs-up as he said this, and turned back to the melee – a busy man, lots of fighting to do – can’t stand around chatting, you know.

Ah, if only every situation was so easy to talk my way out of.

And how selfish of me to object to people beating each other and getting blood on my street.

The Lady’s not for turning (in her grave)

The UK media is debating what should happen with former Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher after her death.

The Guardian newspaper reports that ‘Lady Thatcher is expected to be granted the rare honour of a state funeral when she dies’.

I think it would be a greater and more useful honour for Thatcher if she were to be granted the state funeral while still alive. The former political leader would have the chance to appreciate the pageantry and outpouring of national gratitude for her service to the country.

My vision is of Thatcher being carried through the streets of London sitting up in an open coffin, taking the salute from massed ranks of soldiers and smiling serenely, as though at peace with the world.

Loo-ser

If you’re on your way to a lesson and you pop to the loo, you don’t really want to take all your stuff into the cubicle or try holding all those papers under your arm while you stand at the urinal, you want somewhere to put those marked exam papers, lesson plans, or whatever it is you’re taking to the lesson – and when you go into the toilets where I work, you’re likely to have a thought like this:

‘Oh that’s handy, there’s a plastic table thingy right there’.

You will never have that thought again.

Where I work the bins are like Venus flytraps. They’re a new design and look harmless enough – waist height plastic rectangular buckets with the contents hidden by an attractive table-like lid. And that is the master stroke of these deviously designed receptacles, which are positioned all over the building in the classrooms, corridors, and toilets.

All looks well with the pile of kids’ exercise books and the lesson plan and your car keys sitting there on the table. Your trousers are undone and you’re at the point of no return and SWOOSH! Crunch! The hungry bin has struck again!

That table is just a trapdoor on a hinge, and it swings inwards, but not right away – if you place something on that trapdoor it holds steady for long enough that you feel safe to turn your back. That’s when it opens with the noise of you losing all your work, and I can tell you that’s a shocking noise when you’re standing there at a urinal.

So heed my warning and think about it the next time you’re relieving yourself before an important meeting (or before anything, for that matter) and when someone has a wet patch on their trousers.

Further toileting here.