Here is the promised 'bike' photo.
Again it does not capture the real 'me' but I am slowly working towards building up a composite picture.
Thursday, April 20, 2006
Man and machine
Here is the promised 'bike' photo.
Again it does not capture the real 'me' but I am slowly working towards building up a composite picture.
Humiliation piles upon humiliation
Humiliation piles upon humiliation.
Today I learned that my wife (for so she still is despite her lesbian leanings) has been disporting herself on something called a ‘webcam site’
Cecil, our vicar, took the trouble to come round and tell me about it.
She’s not using her real name. I won’t tell you the pseudonym she has adopted; suffice to say it conveys more than a hint of illicit sexual promise.
Apparently she can be seen – naked to the waist – typing away, obviously engaged in lewd conversation with some other pervert.
I say naked to the waist. Cecil tells me you can’t see her face; he recognised her from the tattoo on her left shoulder – adding (rather hastily) “and also from her ‘profile’”. She has listed among her ‘interests’: classical guitar, Thai cooking and Tantric sex.
Lies! For a start, she’s tone deaf, and all the meals she ever cooked for me came from a packet, via the microwave. As for the Tantric sex – Cecil tells me it is having sex without actually having sex. Ah now, that sounds like my Georgina.
I asked Cecil what a man of the cloth was doing accessing such obviously pornographic sites. He quickly answered that it was all in the name of research. Part of his job is to be aware of the temptations that are constantly being laid in the path of his flock – this being one of technology’s latest. He therefore had to sacrifice his own inner feelings and, as he so cogently put it “dive to the utmost depths of this cyber Sargasso sea” risking his drowning in the murk and filth encountered there.
He also pointed out that he had not actually signed up to this depraved site. Evidently you can have a month’s free trial, where you can watch, but you can’t actually hear the conversations between these disgusting people.
Cecil's ‘free trial’ is coming to an end, but he feels that he may have to continue his research by actually signing up to – I think he called it – ‘silver standard’. He will, of course, be reimbursed from Parish funds.
What is the world coming to! And… wait a minute – Tattoo! WHAT TATTOO?
Today I learned that my wife (for so she still is despite her lesbian leanings) has been disporting herself on something called a ‘webcam site’
Cecil, our vicar, took the trouble to come round and tell me about it.
She’s not using her real name. I won’t tell you the pseudonym she has adopted; suffice to say it conveys more than a hint of illicit sexual promise.
Apparently she can be seen – naked to the waist – typing away, obviously engaged in lewd conversation with some other pervert.
I say naked to the waist. Cecil tells me you can’t see her face; he recognised her from the tattoo on her left shoulder – adding (rather hastily) “and also from her ‘profile’”. She has listed among her ‘interests’: classical guitar, Thai cooking and Tantric sex.
Lies! For a start, she’s tone deaf, and all the meals she ever cooked for me came from a packet, via the microwave. As for the Tantric sex – Cecil tells me it is having sex without actually having sex. Ah now, that sounds like my Georgina.
I asked Cecil what a man of the cloth was doing accessing such obviously pornographic sites. He quickly answered that it was all in the name of research. Part of his job is to be aware of the temptations that are constantly being laid in the path of his flock – this being one of technology’s latest. He therefore had to sacrifice his own inner feelings and, as he so cogently put it “dive to the utmost depths of this cyber Sargasso sea” risking his drowning in the murk and filth encountered there.
He also pointed out that he had not actually signed up to this depraved site. Evidently you can have a month’s free trial, where you can watch, but you can’t actually hear the conversations between these disgusting people.
Cecil's ‘free trial’ is coming to an end, but he feels that he may have to continue his research by actually signing up to – I think he called it – ‘silver standard’. He will, of course, be reimbursed from Parish funds.
What is the world coming to! And… wait a minute – Tattoo! WHAT TATTOO?
Tuesday, April 18, 2006
SELF PORTRAIT
I am having trouble with the bike photo so have switched to my laptop.Here is a picture taken a while ago on our village station. It is not a particularly good likeness - my head is not that small.
Kenny
Kenny describes himself as a serial lover! Serial shagger, more like. No, I take that back. “Judge not, lest ye yourselves be judged”.
He’s not much to look at: skinny with a pronounced Adam’s Apple and dandruff. Probably in his early thirties, he’s not exactly ugly – perhaps if he were you could understand it, some women are attracted to ugly men, or so I am told. But Kenny just looks so ordinary; he reminds me of someone who might work on the bacon-counter at Tesco’s (no disrespect to Tesco’s – a fine supermarket).
He has a big nose though – I wonder if that’s a clue!
Kenny said to me “You know how some men love beer – so much so they’ll drink anything. Well, I love women in the same way: Large or small; fat or skinny; big breasts, no breasts; long legs, short legs; hairy women, smooth women; black, brown, white (I have no racial prejudice); beautiful women, ugly women, nondescript women.
“I suppose if you compared it to a love of food then I am a glutton rather than a gourmet.
“But don’t think for a moment that I USE women. I don’t – I LOVE them.”
He was getting agitated as he tried to get over to me just what he meant. “I can honestly say that I have loved every woman I have been to bed with.” He paused to consider this. “Why do we use that euphemism? Why don’t we just say ‘fucked’? Of course I actually did go to bed with some of them – a few, anyway.
“But yes, I loved them all. And when I get out of here I intend to go on loving them: blonde, brunette, ginger; dominant, submissive; docile, neurotic; jolly, miserable; fragrant, smelly…”
He would have gone on, but Bernie arrived to give him his injection.
He’s not much to look at: skinny with a pronounced Adam’s Apple and dandruff. Probably in his early thirties, he’s not exactly ugly – perhaps if he were you could understand it, some women are attracted to ugly men, or so I am told. But Kenny just looks so ordinary; he reminds me of someone who might work on the bacon-counter at Tesco’s (no disrespect to Tesco’s – a fine supermarket).
He has a big nose though – I wonder if that’s a clue!
Kenny said to me “You know how some men love beer – so much so they’ll drink anything. Well, I love women in the same way: Large or small; fat or skinny; big breasts, no breasts; long legs, short legs; hairy women, smooth women; black, brown, white (I have no racial prejudice); beautiful women, ugly women, nondescript women.
“I suppose if you compared it to a love of food then I am a glutton rather than a gourmet.
“But don’t think for a moment that I USE women. I don’t – I LOVE them.”
He was getting agitated as he tried to get over to me just what he meant. “I can honestly say that I have loved every woman I have been to bed with.” He paused to consider this. “Why do we use that euphemism? Why don’t we just say ‘fucked’? Of course I actually did go to bed with some of them – a few, anyway.
“But yes, I loved them all. And when I get out of here I intend to go on loving them: blonde, brunette, ginger; dominant, submissive; docile, neurotic; jolly, miserable; fragrant, smelly…”
He would have gone on, but Bernie arrived to give him his injection.
Sunday, April 16, 2006
Reflections on a Sunday evening.
Some men with chainsaws have been cutting down trees in the grounds. I like trees. They take so long to grow, and in minutes technology razes them to the ground.
Why do they do this? Ah well, they say, the roots undermine the buildings. I don’t believe that is the reason. Some people just like to demolish things. It looks neat.
I took a picture of myself, on the motorbike which I intend to ride round South America (or somewhere else) and I wanted to post it on here. No success. I have not got the ‘picture icon’ in the toolbar, which they talk about in ‘Help’. I have tried downloading ‘Picasso’ – it downloads then seems to disappear (can’t find any icon). Surely it cannot be that difficult to post a picture. I did it once, some time ago, but it has disappeared. Maybe it is me, and my overheated brain. Maybe I need a new computer, a new life.
It is 10pm on Easter Sunday evening. The film ‘Chocolat’ (Mr Gates has drawn a red line under that word. He thinks I have spelled it wrong) is on television. I have tried to watch it but I cannot hear the soundtrack properly. The higher frequencies. It’s the old hearing-holes, you know. So frustrating for a man in the prime of life.
I don’t drink alcohol any more. Well a glass of wine with a meal, and I miss the buzz it used to give me. What is there to do in the evening? Sex? I think I have got out of the habit. Where are you now, Anastasia? Carol? And even old ‘thingy’ down the Jolly Pervert?
What? Amanda? Well, you can’t call that proper, wholesome sex, can you. To tell you the truth, I think she is using me. That is why she wants to keep me here. All that stuff about people not existing. Oh they exist all right. I am not going mad. I have requested an interview with Freddie and if that does not get anywhere I will formally ask for a review by independent tribunal.
I must finish now. It is ‘lights out’. Here comes Greta with her big bunch of keys dangling from that wide black belt she wears. So tight, it is. I said to Kenny the other day... sorry she is insisting I stop typing. Such a dominant woman.
Why do they do this? Ah well, they say, the roots undermine the buildings. I don’t believe that is the reason. Some people just like to demolish things. It looks neat.
I took a picture of myself, on the motorbike which I intend to ride round South America (or somewhere else) and I wanted to post it on here. No success. I have not got the ‘picture icon’ in the toolbar, which they talk about in ‘Help’. I have tried downloading ‘Picasso’ – it downloads then seems to disappear (can’t find any icon). Surely it cannot be that difficult to post a picture. I did it once, some time ago, but it has disappeared. Maybe it is me, and my overheated brain. Maybe I need a new computer, a new life.
It is 10pm on Easter Sunday evening. The film ‘Chocolat’ (Mr Gates has drawn a red line under that word. He thinks I have spelled it wrong) is on television. I have tried to watch it but I cannot hear the soundtrack properly. The higher frequencies. It’s the old hearing-holes, you know. So frustrating for a man in the prime of life.
I don’t drink alcohol any more. Well a glass of wine with a meal, and I miss the buzz it used to give me. What is there to do in the evening? Sex? I think I have got out of the habit. Where are you now, Anastasia? Carol? And even old ‘thingy’ down the Jolly Pervert?
What? Amanda? Well, you can’t call that proper, wholesome sex, can you. To tell you the truth, I think she is using me. That is why she wants to keep me here. All that stuff about people not existing. Oh they exist all right. I am not going mad. I have requested an interview with Freddie and if that does not get anywhere I will formally ask for a review by independent tribunal.
I must finish now. It is ‘lights out’. Here comes Greta with her big bunch of keys dangling from that wide black belt she wears. So tight, it is. I said to Kenny the other day... sorry she is insisting I stop typing. Such a dominant woman.
Friday, April 14, 2006
Things get sticky
It’s becoming a matter of urgency. To answer the question: is there such a thing as objective reality, or do I spin my own reality, my own world, each day, like the spider spins its web? You may think that is an easy question to answer; it isn’t. It has occupied the minds of philosophers over the ages.
Amanda has broken her silence. At 10am this morning, I was escorted to her office by Bernie.
‘George, these journals…’ she had a couple of them on the desk in front of her and as she spoke she sort of pushed at them with the backs of her long fingers – as if trying to brush away something contaminated. ‘I think we need to talk about them.’
‘Aren’t you going to ask me to sit down?’
She waved me, tiredly to the chair opposite. She was looking paler than ever, and the circles under her eyes were tinged with violet. The colour of a fading bruise. God she is so beautiful.
‘Well, I am a captive audience – the operative word being ‘captive’.
She sighed and reached for a cigarette.
‘Have you read what it says on the packet?’ I intoned, in my most solemn voice. In answer, she blew smoke across the desk, and I made an elaborate show of wafting it away.
‘George, this stuff you write in here – it’s pure fantasy, isn’t it?’
‘I don’t know what you mean’
‘I think you do’ She opened the topmost journal, seemingly at random. It was strange to be looking at my upside down writing. I could see from the particular handwriting style I had employed that it was recent. My handwriting styles are as many and varied as my moods. This was in italic script. Only last week I purchased a ‘calligraphy’ fibre tip pen in an attempt at some sort of standardisation.
‘Just let me read this to you, she continued, dropping ash onto my beautiful italic letters.
‘Haven’t you got an astray?’ I asked, as sarcastically as possible.
She lifted my journal and blew a small cloud of ash and smoke in my direction. Putting it back down, she began to read.
PERCY THE PAEDOPHILE
We give him a wide berth. Well we don’t want to be tainted ‘by association’ do we! We’re not nasty to him. After all he is a human being – we just ignore him. Yesterday he offered me his copy of ‘The Times’ after he had read it. I said ‘No thank you’. I mean, I don’t suppose you can catch anything off a newspaper, but I was taking no chances.
Anyway, he shouldn’t have been put in here – along with normal folk. He’s supposed to be in for ‘assessment’, but the truth is they don’t know what to do with him. By ‘they’ I mean officialdom: the police, the courts, social services - not since his house was torched by the neighbours, in an act of community solidarity. Actually they got the wrong house on the first go – same street, wrong number - but a bunch of crack-heads were living there so you could say they killed two birds with one stone – or one can of petrol.
Old Percy doesn’t look like a paedophile – I mean his eyes are not close together, and he doesn’t smell. In fact he looks so ordinary. But that’s the thing isn’t it – that’s how they get away with it: by looking ordinary.
Clive wanted to get up a petition to present to Freddie, but I pointed out that it would not look very official, written in coloured crayon. He went away in a sulk. But he came back in a few minutes with this:
“Stand up and keep your childishness,
Read all the pedants’ screeds and strictures,
But don’t believe in anything
That can’t be told in coloured pictures.”
I heartily agree with you, Clive (and G K Chesterton). Ok. A petition it is.
I don’t actually know what he did – Percy, I mean – not Clive. But I guess it must have been something pretty disgusting. What with terrorists, Al Quaeda (have I spelled it right?), illegal immigrants and bird flu, this is a petty dangerous society we live in.
Probably here is the safest place to be.
Amanda closed the journal, stubbed out her cigarette and looked at me. ‘Percy… Clive… they don’t exist, do they?’
I held her gaze. ‘And what about you, Amanda? Do YOU exist?’
Amanda has broken her silence. At 10am this morning, I was escorted to her office by Bernie.
‘George, these journals…’ she had a couple of them on the desk in front of her and as she spoke she sort of pushed at them with the backs of her long fingers – as if trying to brush away something contaminated. ‘I think we need to talk about them.’
‘Aren’t you going to ask me to sit down?’
She waved me, tiredly to the chair opposite. She was looking paler than ever, and the circles under her eyes were tinged with violet. The colour of a fading bruise. God she is so beautiful.
‘Well, I am a captive audience – the operative word being ‘captive’.
She sighed and reached for a cigarette.
‘Have you read what it says on the packet?’ I intoned, in my most solemn voice. In answer, she blew smoke across the desk, and I made an elaborate show of wafting it away.
‘George, this stuff you write in here – it’s pure fantasy, isn’t it?’
‘I don’t know what you mean’
‘I think you do’ She opened the topmost journal, seemingly at random. It was strange to be looking at my upside down writing. I could see from the particular handwriting style I had employed that it was recent. My handwriting styles are as many and varied as my moods. This was in italic script. Only last week I purchased a ‘calligraphy’ fibre tip pen in an attempt at some sort of standardisation.
‘Just let me read this to you, she continued, dropping ash onto my beautiful italic letters.
‘Haven’t you got an astray?’ I asked, as sarcastically as possible.
She lifted my journal and blew a small cloud of ash and smoke in my direction. Putting it back down, she began to read.
PERCY THE PAEDOPHILE
We give him a wide berth. Well we don’t want to be tainted ‘by association’ do we! We’re not nasty to him. After all he is a human being – we just ignore him. Yesterday he offered me his copy of ‘The Times’ after he had read it. I said ‘No thank you’. I mean, I don’t suppose you can catch anything off a newspaper, but I was taking no chances.
Anyway, he shouldn’t have been put in here – along with normal folk. He’s supposed to be in for ‘assessment’, but the truth is they don’t know what to do with him. By ‘they’ I mean officialdom: the police, the courts, social services - not since his house was torched by the neighbours, in an act of community solidarity. Actually they got the wrong house on the first go – same street, wrong number - but a bunch of crack-heads were living there so you could say they killed two birds with one stone – or one can of petrol.
Old Percy doesn’t look like a paedophile – I mean his eyes are not close together, and he doesn’t smell. In fact he looks so ordinary. But that’s the thing isn’t it – that’s how they get away with it: by looking ordinary.
Clive wanted to get up a petition to present to Freddie, but I pointed out that it would not look very official, written in coloured crayon. He went away in a sulk. But he came back in a few minutes with this:
“Stand up and keep your childishness,
Read all the pedants’ screeds and strictures,
But don’t believe in anything
That can’t be told in coloured pictures.”
I heartily agree with you, Clive (and G K Chesterton). Ok. A petition it is.
I don’t actually know what he did – Percy, I mean – not Clive. But I guess it must have been something pretty disgusting. What with terrorists, Al Quaeda (have I spelled it right?), illegal immigrants and bird flu, this is a petty dangerous society we live in.
Probably here is the safest place to be.
Amanda closed the journal, stubbed out her cigarette and looked at me. ‘Percy… Clive… they don’t exist, do they?’
I held her gaze. ‘And what about you, Amanda? Do YOU exist?’
Tuesday, April 11, 2006
Re Comments
RJ: I appreciate your concern, but we've all got to go sometime and I would prefer to go 'mounted' so to speak. I will, however, need a bit of practice having been incarcerated in here for so long. But I promise I will be careful.
ANONYMOUS(?): You don't fool me Anastasia - I would recognise that Anglo-Swedish tongue anywhere. And don't think I am going to let you get away with your scurrilous bloggings. I know you haven't done it for a while but I am keeping an eye on 'Sisters under the Duvet', and I will report any instances of libel to the Blogspot people.
GIRLZOOT: Your 'patch' is being hand-crafted in 'Occupational Therapy' even as I type these words.
ANONYMOUS(?): You don't fool me Anastasia - I would recognise that Anglo-Swedish tongue anywhere. And don't think I am going to let you get away with your scurrilous bloggings. I know you haven't done it for a while but I am keeping an eye on 'Sisters under the Duvet', and I will report any instances of libel to the Blogspot people.
GIRLZOOT: Your 'patch' is being hand-crafted in 'Occupational Therapy' even as I type these words.
Sunday, April 09, 2006
Dreams of faraway mountains
When I switched on my computer the ‘tip for the day’ was “If you do your best, whatever happens will be for the best”
Thank you Mr Gates. I’ve heard it before but it is not a bad tip for one who is about to write. And I am reminded of something E L Doctorow said: “… nothing of any beauty or truth comes of pieces of writing without the author’s thinking that he has sinned against something – propriety, custom, faith, privacy, tradition, political orthodoxy, historical fact, literary convention, or indeed all the prevailing community standards together.” And I have to say, I’m with him on that one.
In my writing from the locked ward, I therefore absolve myself in advance for any offence I may cause, citing the above quotation as my authority.
I have had diarrhoea this morning. I blame it on the chicken we were served last night. It was in some kind of hot sauce: chilli, perhaps. Also it must have been a pretty old bird because it was so tough; and you know me with my delicate stomach. I once thought of becoming a Vegan, but I don’t think it is really me. Although I once went to a ‘Vegan Fair’ in Liverpool and the stuff they had as samples was quite tasty. I got chatting to one of the Vegans; a tall girl with tattoos all over her arms and shoulders. She was very nice, but I couldn’t see any point in asking her out to lunch.
Did you know that the human brain weighs about three pounds and is roughly the size of two fists pressed tightly together? (I have always adopted a two-fisted attitude to life). And in this lump of grey stuff there is a network of about ten billion interconnected nerve cells, or neurons. It makes you think doesn’t it. Actually that is exactly what it does do!!
The PET scan showed that there is an unusually high level of metabolic activity in my left orbital cortex. It shows up on the screen, glowing red. (See, I told you my brain was overheating). There are other things too which I won’t go into since this is not a medical treatise. Nothing congenital, mind you. No serious organic damage. But this intense firing of the orbital cortex can give the strong feeling that something is wrong. So there you go then. I am always feeling there is ‘something wrong’. Of course sometimes there IS something wrong. But all this medical stuff is getting boring.
I am looking for sponsors. I am planning a motorcycle trip around South America – re-creating Che Guevara’s famous journey, as depicted in that fine film ‘The Motorcycle Diaries’
My trip has nothing to do with politics. I am completely apolitical – ever since I was thrown out of the neo-Trotskyites (Swindon Branch) for singing the Horst Wessel song on the coach, coming back from the annual outing to Margate. If I cannot get enough sponsorship for South America I will ride to Lands End (England) instead. The charity for which I shall be raising money will be ‘Age Concern’.
Of course this is all pie in the Andes if they don’t let me out of here - and that is up to Freddie. His sister (step sister) seems to have adopted a low profile since we came back from London. I sent her a note via Greta, but the envelope came back, unopened.
Thank you Mr Gates. I’ve heard it before but it is not a bad tip for one who is about to write. And I am reminded of something E L Doctorow said: “… nothing of any beauty or truth comes of pieces of writing without the author’s thinking that he has sinned against something – propriety, custom, faith, privacy, tradition, political orthodoxy, historical fact, literary convention, or indeed all the prevailing community standards together.” And I have to say, I’m with him on that one.
In my writing from the locked ward, I therefore absolve myself in advance for any offence I may cause, citing the above quotation as my authority.
I have had diarrhoea this morning. I blame it on the chicken we were served last night. It was in some kind of hot sauce: chilli, perhaps. Also it must have been a pretty old bird because it was so tough; and you know me with my delicate stomach. I once thought of becoming a Vegan, but I don’t think it is really me. Although I once went to a ‘Vegan Fair’ in Liverpool and the stuff they had as samples was quite tasty. I got chatting to one of the Vegans; a tall girl with tattoos all over her arms and shoulders. She was very nice, but I couldn’t see any point in asking her out to lunch.
Did you know that the human brain weighs about three pounds and is roughly the size of two fists pressed tightly together? (I have always adopted a two-fisted attitude to life). And in this lump of grey stuff there is a network of about ten billion interconnected nerve cells, or neurons. It makes you think doesn’t it. Actually that is exactly what it does do!!
The PET scan showed that there is an unusually high level of metabolic activity in my left orbital cortex. It shows up on the screen, glowing red. (See, I told you my brain was overheating). There are other things too which I won’t go into since this is not a medical treatise. Nothing congenital, mind you. No serious organic damage. But this intense firing of the orbital cortex can give the strong feeling that something is wrong. So there you go then. I am always feeling there is ‘something wrong’. Of course sometimes there IS something wrong. But all this medical stuff is getting boring.
I am looking for sponsors. I am planning a motorcycle trip around South America – re-creating Che Guevara’s famous journey, as depicted in that fine film ‘The Motorcycle Diaries’
My trip has nothing to do with politics. I am completely apolitical – ever since I was thrown out of the neo-Trotskyites (Swindon Branch) for singing the Horst Wessel song on the coach, coming back from the annual outing to Margate. If I cannot get enough sponsorship for South America I will ride to Lands End (England) instead. The charity for which I shall be raising money will be ‘Age Concern’.
Of course this is all pie in the Andes if they don’t let me out of here - and that is up to Freddie. His sister (step sister) seems to have adopted a low profile since we came back from London. I sent her a note via Greta, but the envelope came back, unopened.
Friday, April 07, 2006
A room with a view... to...
When I got back – what a welcome! No flowers and chilled Chardonay for me. They’d only given my room to Mad Eric, the arsonist! Just until his room is redecorated, they said. (And while Freddie carries out an investigation into where he got the matches).
They’ve put me in Alice’s old room. Nobody wants it after what happened to her. I think I told you how she was allowed home for the weekend, and hanged herself from the banister. I loved Alice. So I really don’t mind being in her room for a short while. It’s been emptied of all her things of course – and in fact it has been redecorated. So to all intents and purposes it is a new room. But I wonder if her spirit lingers there in some way.
Amanda wants to see me about my journals. She suspects me of making things up: inventing characters, events. You may also wonder about this. But fact and fiction are difficult to separate at the best of times. When you are dealing with the mind of someone who is perhaps ‘a little bit strange’ (to be charitable) the task is even harder. All I can tell you is that fact and fiction are mixed – in what proportion I leave to you to decide. When you have decided, perhaps you can tell me because I am not sure myself.
They’ve put me in Alice’s old room. Nobody wants it after what happened to her. I think I told you how she was allowed home for the weekend, and hanged herself from the banister. I loved Alice. So I really don’t mind being in her room for a short while. It’s been emptied of all her things of course – and in fact it has been redecorated. So to all intents and purposes it is a new room. But I wonder if her spirit lingers there in some way.
Amanda wants to see me about my journals. She suspects me of making things up: inventing characters, events. You may also wonder about this. But fact and fiction are difficult to separate at the best of times. When you are dealing with the mind of someone who is perhaps ‘a little bit strange’ (to be charitable) the task is even harder. All I can tell you is that fact and fiction are mixed – in what proportion I leave to you to decide. When you have decided, perhaps you can tell me because I am not sure myself.
Wednesday, April 05, 2006
HOME FROM THE WAR
They flew me back from London. On account of the foot. The scanner fell on it. Well not the complete machine; just the control panel, on the end of that thick cable. All the same it broke two bones in my foot: 2nd and 3rd metatarsals, right foot. I think they were afraid I was going to sue – couldn’t do enough for me. I wouldn’t have sued; dead against the ‘compensation culture’, I am. Bloody careless though. It hurt like buggery, Still, I suppose it could have been worse: I could have caught that MFI bug – or whatever it is called.
I hate airports: all those people. I mean, where are they all going? You just wouldn’t think there were enough places in the world. Anyway, I don’t think it natural to be sealed in a tin tube for several hours and then disgorged onto some foreign tarmac. But of course we were only in the air for 45 minutes. ‘Easy Jet’ have this boarding system like you’re going into the lifeboats: women and children first. Of course I got to the head of the queue, because of the wheel chair.
I sat next to Amanda. She sulked the whole flight – because I pretended to be handcuffed to her.
I hate airports: all those people. I mean, where are they all going? You just wouldn’t think there were enough places in the world. Anyway, I don’t think it natural to be sealed in a tin tube for several hours and then disgorged onto some foreign tarmac. But of course we were only in the air for 45 minutes. ‘Easy Jet’ have this boarding system like you’re going into the lifeboats: women and children first. Of course I got to the head of the queue, because of the wheel chair.
I sat next to Amanda. She sulked the whole flight – because I pretended to be handcuffed to her.
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