Executive orders can mean harsh cutbacks!

Well it has to be said that as life has gone along I have become more and more proficient in taking onboard other peoples radical ideas and trying to use them in an attempt to improve my everyday comfort. Everybody does that don't they? I hear you mutter under your breath. Well no, It seems to me that the vast majority just trundle on doing things the same way they've always done them as they grow comfortable with the structure this provides and never wonder if there is a better way, or how things could improve and life change for the better if done differently.

With this in mind I spent a very long time considering my current situation, most of Tuesday lunchtime in fact weighing up all the pros and cons and running various plans and theories over in my mind. I knew that whatever I decided it would have to be bold, radical, with cutting edge thinking designed to put me a little closer to easy street where all the movers, shakers, and politicians live. And then while watching Donald Trump on the news it came to me!

So, I have decided to make an executive order and impose a tariff on any labour that I expend on household related chores, payable by my wife on a regular basis. This would consist of some little luxury for me depending on the chore and the length of time and energy required to do it. I was thinking along the lines of a couple of cans of beer for doing the vacuuming, some popcorn for doing the washing up, that kind of thing.

Now tariffs can divide opinion of course, needless to say my wife, when briefed on my plan was somewhat less than overjoyed and provided quite cool feedback.......Actually it would more accurately be described as frosty, ......no no, arctic would be more appropriate I think.

Her response to my plan consisted of exactly two words and the second word was Off! Yes she's a class act is my wife.

Now obviously I realised that first responses to such a bold and innovative idea were likely to be less than 100% well received and that some further negotiation may be needed but it is fair to say that the gulf in distance between us has never been larger, far bigger I fear than the gulf of Mexico! or is that America now? I'm having trouble keeping up with DJT. 

Anyway she has responded in the worst possible way and informed me that there will be some retaliatory measures including some tariffs of her own with a cutting of some food preparation and cleaning services and it seems the possible removal of some of my essential body parts, some of which having happily dangled in my Calvin Klein's for a considerable length of time!

It is fair to say that these are cutbacks that I was not expecting so in light of this fact I have decided to pause indefinitely my executive order and return to my usual routine until further notice!

So what have I learned from this? Well executive orders and tariffs are headline grabbing and easy to make, but often lead to unforseen consequences that involve retaliatory measures, including cutbacks, resulting in reduced quality (and in the most severe cases, quantity) of life and the male voice becoming much higher pitched and harder to understand!

So I'm off now to start the vacuuming! And no, I don't expect anything for it other than keeping the status quo and all my body appendages in their appropriate positions!  😁

If Jane doesn't want me Angela does!

It may come as some surprise that as a general rule I am not known for being particularly outspoken. It's true that through previous scribblings I have expressed some concerns about the antics of various groups and individuals on thorny issues such as houses that never sleep and seem to resemble electrical substations, Lycra clad cyclists who appear to have at least 3 terrifying 'bulges' and men who think they become Michelin star chefs when they have a reasonably sunny day and a bag of charcoal!

All these things are somewhat baffling but I do at least understand them on some level but there is one question in my life that I have struggled to even start to get my head around.

 

To clarify I think it best to provide some background with a fact which those of you who know me as the stunningly good looking hunk and all round international man of mystery may find almost unbelievable!

At the age of  exactly 17 I embarked on my first meaningful relationship with Jane, a beautiful young woman.

At the age of seventeen years and 1 day I suffered my first break up of a meaningful relationship.

I know! said you'd be shocked, dumped in a day, impressive right? 

Why would she do that to me? I was tortured, didn't she like her fish & chips? was her coke flat? didn't she realise I was destined for below average things? or was my witty recounting of being electrocuted while peeing on an electric fence too much, too soon? 

Whatever, I was totally deflated and 2 pounds poorer for the experience! I couldn't see how I could move on from this.

This story I think explains a lot about the fragile state of mind which has afflicted me all my adult life and the infantile buffoonery which has accompanied it.

It also signalled the start of a life-long struggle to make sense of the age old problem which has afflicted men since Adam became aware that Eve had been messing about with his Golden Delicious,

What makes women tick? .....or ....where did I go wrong with Jane?

Now at the risk of ruffling feminist feathers the world over I will attempt to diagnose the issue and provide some much needed and if I may say, valuable insight into this most complex matter.
To date I have read countless theories from relationship councillor's, analysts and psychology guru's on similar thorny issues of rejection but suffice to say I cannot, with any conviction say that I have achieved any greater clarity in my mind regarding the complexities of the underlying problem.

I don't buy the Venus and Mars horse dung, nor do I subscribe to the popular belief that men don't have feelings so therefore could not be expected to properly, truly understand the much more complex female mind. Well listen up, No man is an island!................well apart from the isle of Man obviously!.. .................Whatever moving on,

Coming to terms with the moment your world implodes and your jolly Roger seems to shrink to the size of a new born babies little finger is no easy matter and this is where a support network of family and friends is vital.

Of course when recounting the details of my disaster to the rough assortment of dubious individuals I somewhat over enthusiastically called 'my mates' I pretended that I cared not, easy come, easy go, onwards and upwards, plenty more fish in the sea etc, but deep down of course the blow to my blossoming male ego and self esteem cannot be under-estimated. I was hurting! so I did what any man without a driving license would do in my position, I bought a car!

Not just any car you understand but my very first car! Angela , a Ford Anglia 105E,  823 UAE, my pride and joy, my motor. An MOT failure certainly but still resplendent in its striking blue and rust coloured paint job, the death squeal of her brake shoes (minus linings it seemed) on the wheel drums. Ah haunting!

Now that was 15 quid well spent on that little beauty methinks! ☺

Late nights and creaking gates

Good day all!  I feel that I must share with you that I have suffered recently one of those moments in life when you realise that what you were capable of doing so easily in the past is now only possible by taking a hefty quantity of illicit drugs, none of which can be ordered over the counter at the pharmacy. 

You must understand that when I say that I suffered a sudden realisation, this in fact means that it felt as if someone had violently assaulted me using some form of club to hit me about the head, or to be more precise, right between the eyes!

For the record I was in the lovely city of Liverpool, at a professional seminar, taking time out to use the conference centre internet connection to impart my somewhat folded view of life and my complete inability to deal with it. For those of you who know the city, the conference centre is right next to the Echo arena as was, on the Kings dock, overshadowed by a huge Ferris wheel thing, a kind of Liverpool eye if you will.
Now it is accepted at these events for delegates to be afforded a few evening 'perks' in the form of food and drink and generally be allowed to relax and be merry at somebody else's expense. Yes! Just like an MP! There is only one drawback and that is it is all too easy to over indulge if who pays is not an issue, a bit like your buffet breakfast when your on your all inclusive holidays. You know croissants, toast, followed by a full english, cold meats, waffles and lastly a little slice of melon to make you feel better about it! Well the same can happen in the evening in the bar where a plethora of different exotic sounding drinks are freely available and you feel this is too good an opportunity to miss! Hence yours truly is slumped on a rather uncomfortable stool in the 'delegate lounge' and I am aware that my body has a ridiculous slope as I cannot retain any form of decent posture due to alcohol fatigue and a curvature of the spine which appears to have been acquired overnight despite my very comfortable queen size bed. My legs have suffered a temporary (I hope) amnesia, completely forgetting their role in supporting me, so much so my knees seem to no longer act as effective hinges so I have to crouch part way to the floor and then fall the rest of the way while pretending that this is some form of cunning master plan to get to the floor quicker and therefore recover the pen that I am unable to grasp properly more nimbly.

This of course has led me to question what in royal Scally city is going on? This morning, in a brief window of clarity I was shattered to have some very grave thoughts pop into my mind. I suddenly realised here, in this great place that I have now lived far longer than I am yet to live and slowly pieces of me will very likely start failing to work properly or more unsettling start dropping off completely!

So it was I carried this heavy burden into the conference pretending all the while that my odd body shape was in fact some hereditary disease and hoping against hope that I didn't bump into anybody who knew me!

I realise that some of you may well have suffered similar unsettling experiences and you may be able to extend to me some sympathy and understanding and feel charitable enough to offer up some suggestions as to how to cope with being the wrong side of sixty and not make a complete chisel of myself at every turn.You see I  know of only one cure for a creaking gate that doesn't involve radical surgery or a mobile pharmacy to follow me around and that of course is oil, alcohoil in copious quantity. Groundhog day tomorrow then! ☺

The Alternative to Intelligence. A loving wife!

AI image of a complete idiot. copyright planks R us.

I was more than a little made up recently when I discovered via my ever attentive wife that a solution to an issue which has beset me for my entire life could actually be provided by a new phenomenon which apparently has become available to us all. 

The 'problem' for want of a better word is that when I was born I somehow managed to get stuck at the back of the intelligence queue and apparently they had run out of that commodity a good while before I reached the front of it!

As a result of my misfortune I have had to suffer numerous cruel taunts and put downs throughout my life. These have varied in acidity and spite, ranging from a fairly soft 'you dozy bugger' for thinking that the Moody Blues was a medical condition suffered by my sister, stepping up in venom to a much more fierce 'what a dinosaur' from a seventeen year old work colleague when I mistook tik tok for small mints! before finally suffering the indignation of receiving the slant 'If brains were dominoes you'd be a double blank! from my brother when he convinced me that winning the challenge of keeping your pee directed onto the electric fence wire made you pretty special indeed.

https://blunderousstories.blogspot.com/2015/01/the-gamble-of-life.html?m=1

Yeah, thanks bro!!

Not even my Do/1 degree in tomfoolery from Horrabridge university or my subsequent appearance on Universally challenged made any difference to my brain function or how people interact with me. This of course has resulted in my attempts to inform and guide through written articles to fail at the first hurdle on a frequent basis. These include 'driving made easy, a crash course ' and 'drug dealing, a pharmacists guide'

Lucky for me, the 'cure' is now really easy. I can now obtain artificial intelligence or AI as its known. This of course has been the moment that I have waited my entire life for as with a little help from 'Gemini' I can write a snappy and thought provoking post with little or no thought on my behalf and banish to history the curse of criticism and people poking fun at me!

Praise be! I hear you shout, No more aimless ramblings about my utter pointless existence or my inability to cope with even the mildest of life challenges. 

Posts from now on should be informative, without being boring, humorous without being crass and although still short of anything even a little bit useful they will at least be well written!

So you can all look forward to my next AI inspired offering; 'How to tie your shoelace while balancing on one leg'

(Spoiler alert, its all to do with having a good centre of gravity and being under 65! So no and no for me then!)

C'est la Vie! The intelligent thing to do apparently is ask the wife to do it for me as she has access to a spine that bends without pain and the need for a loud aaaagh! as she performs the task, plus the added bonus that it returns to a normal shape when she stands up!

Oh well, lets hope I've mastered the old intelligence thing before too long because if not I may have to try and blag my way through the pearly gates at this rate!

See ya ☺

The Thrill Of the Mundane

 

 

I suppose that it's a rite of passage that as we get older we hanker after days gone by, when life seemed less complicated and it was easy to navigate your way through it without making a complete plank of yourself with seemingly monotonous regularity. 

You could buy a kid a present safe in the knowledge that the lack of 100 million terabytes of memory would not pose any serious problems.

You could also walk down the street without being baulked by someone wearing headphones, grinning like a potty professor at their Y-phone as they watch a clip of a dog chasing its tail while plastering a ceiling on facebook.

Those of you not part of the social media society may struggle to understand why this side splitting sight requires viewing at 7 O'clock in the morning on the journey into work, or why there is a need for others to 'like' it so that the poster gets the impression that the more of this dross they can upload the more they will be appreciated and 'liked'. 

Some people it seems now live out their entire lives on social media, never pausing to reflect on how the countless postings of trivia from their world are really viewed by their luckless 'friends'.
Of course we are very social animals, we want and need to belong, to feel we are part of the crowd, someone worth knowing. loneliness is a life block to be avoided at all costs so I suppose ticking up Jenny's cup cakes is a small price to pay for social acceptance. 

In the not so distant past people would talk with each other in that good old fashioned way of face to face conversation or perhaps a quick call on the landline.

Nowadays of course this has been made redundant by our total reliance on smartphones and social media. Everyone it seems, over the age of six has a 'device', worried parents pressured into action in case their little cherubs encounter emergencies or they get lost.

How times have changed, I hail from a time when parents routinely told their offspring to GET lost and if they could possibly get themselves adopted by the neighbours while they were at it that would be great!

Seriously though, it's a sign of how totally dependent we are becoming on these devices, that it seems unlikely that most people would be able to go a day without access to a smartphone. If it were heroin we would be known as total smackheads! 

Texting has of course taken over as the main form of communication in life, where a strange cyber language, or text speak is used which invariably leads to short, clipped messages, heavy on slang and emojis where the absence of facial expression and tone can ironically lead the reader not receiving the senders real thoughts and emotions. 

This often causes the very thing that sending the message sought to head off by creating misunderstanding and annoyance!

What's the solution to all of this? Well, after messaging my adopted parents and Face Timing my social worker, I have resolved to purchase a new ifad quif, join tik tok and upload a video of me cleaning my teeth with an angle grinder!

You gotta see it! It is hilarious!.. smiley face...@#plankchirping

C U l8r .........lol.....😜

Coming To America!

Very occasionally I am pleased to say that I am able to spend some time far away from Vincent Towers and indeed the fair shores of blighty, yep I get to put on some shades, get me some local currency and strut my stuff in a different land. One of my favourite countries to visit is America where I've been a couple of times and I may well get to return there quite soon.

Now before all my Yankee buddies start high fiving in joyful celebration I should point out that many people on this side of the pond consider that having me turn up on their doorstep is as enjoyable as sharing a bath with an alligator who's last meal was a week ago and consisted of a small minnow!

However be that as it may there is a small, albeit dwindling group of cheery souls who take a diametric view and invite me to all their parties and gatherings in the almost certain knowledge that the former lord of the dance, once suitably lubricated by alcohol, may well attempt the step over pirouette on one leg. However I digress, back to the point. On my previous visits to the states I was able to spend time in Charlottesville and Washington and on another visit some time enjoying the Florida sunshine in Kissimmee which I loved.

It will be no surprise to readers however that while in Washington I was able to get myself on the wrong side of the law without any effort whatsoever. That it took me just a few days to fall foul of the DC police department is all the more impressive as it took fully ten years to achieve the same feat with the 'Rossers' of the local village constabulary where I grew up. 

Both heinous crimes were dealt with by a stern telling off and an undertaking by me to keep the right side of the law in future and each taught a salutary lesson to yours truly that in future I should always; 

a) Know the law, 

b) Not get caught if intending to break it.

 

Being chased by the village bobby on his bike at age ten for scrumping apples, is equally as daunting as facing a DC cop staring down from a huge horse complete with an impressive hand gun 30 years later for crossing the road at the wrong place. Suffice to say both lawmen were firm but fair and the DC cop was particularly polite and chatty, especially after recognising the dulcet tone of unmistakable Anglo Saxon English.

 I'm really looking forward to going back, especially if we can arrange a trip to New York or perhaps even the west coast, where I'm sure a warm welcome awaits and I'm sure we'll have a great time. 

I have to say that overall I find Americans in general more outgoing and a whole lot more optimistic than us Brits and can say 'have a nice day' with genuine enthusiasm which conveys a sense that they actually mean it!
Well enough for now, I'm off to catch up on some old episodes of Miami Vice and learn my Miranda rights.
I have the right to remain silent, its just a pity I find that so difficult!

A Jaywalker rests after making it across the road safely to 1600  Pennsylvania Avenue

I Think I Need To Recharge My Batteries

Modern life is proving anything but easy in Vincent towers despite the reckless purchase of an array of devices designed to put me on easy street and make my life virtually stress free. The flaw you see is the fact that all of these aids are either powered by mains electricity or they are battery operated and require frequent charging. Now as well as consuming half the power available from the national grid on a regular basis and the subsequent energy bills received matching the national debt of Botswana, I am becoming more and more concerned that my home is never allowed to sleep, there being too many LED charging lights illuminating every room at all hours, making the hallway seem more akin to an airport runway and the other living areas overrun by a hoard of 4 gang extension sockets.

This has led on to a feeling that my little house may not be the castle I once considered it to be, to put it bluntly I have become acutely aware that this house, my home, is no longer fit for purpose. That is to say 21st century living cannot be effectively maintained in this 1960's ex council house as amended by a 1990's re-wiring job.

Just a few short years ago all was well, we lived in relative harmony with our surroundings. We worried not that we didn't have the latest trappings of affluent consumerism, there was no home cinema system requiring a television the size of a garage door to appreciate the luxury of wide screen, nor did we see the need to be permanently hooked up to the world wide web like some Hammer Horror human spiders. Life was slower and uncomplicated, though gradually we began calling our friends and family less on land lines and started texting instead on our new Nokia androids, at least when the variable or completely absent signal strength would allow.

Suddenly it now seems that there are not enough electrical sockets in the walls to allow the charging of the myriad of communication gadgets which have become central to living in modern times. Smart phones, tablets and laptops adorn nearly every bit of table and worktop space, giving it the appearance of the bridge of the star trek enterprise. There is always something on charge, with a lead stretching out in readiness to snare the leg of any unwary passer by and send them crashing to the ground, with a charger so hot I need oven gloves to remove it from the wall lest I receive third degree burns. If its not a charger plugged in its a docking station for some other gizmo which apparently we cannot do without, and all of these things seem to consume battery power at an incredible rate and require charging far sooner than the manufacturer led us to believe.
It gets no better upstairs, where electric toothbrushes, hair straighteners, razors, epilators and hair dryers all vie for a spare socket.
No, there's nothing for it, I'll have to move. I'm going online at once and view the available houses!

Well I will as soon as the laptops  charged up!

The Former Lord Of The Dance

Readers of the chronicles may be a little surprised to discover that I have always considered myself a bit of a mover and groover. Suffice to say as a young man, when co-ordination could mostly be relied upon and I could move my legs for more than a few minutes without pulling a muscle I would often be found prowling the dance floors and disco's in and around my home town, 'presenting my moves' or 'throwing some shapes' as we used to say.

 Although vaguely reminiscent of an extra from the set of footloose, I considered myself to be more akin to a strutting peacock doing a little bit of showboating. Indeed I considered I had a collection of moves that even the great Michael Jackson himself would have been envious of! I was especially proud of my step over pirouette on one leg which is still remembered fondly by myself and.....well just me really.

This rhythmic cavorting had only one purpose, which was to present my 'talent' and associated wares to the assembled ladies and hope that they were slightly the worse for wear due to copious consumption of alcohol and had sufficient strength beer goggles on to appreciate the finer aspects of the good ship chirps. They would then form an orderly queue in the hope to be the girl chosen to accompany me home. 

It seems however that a queue is not a queue unless there are people in it, and I am left totally baffled as to why I would invariably end the night eating a kebab while waiting in line for a taxi with my mates. This was even more galling when the aforementioned 'mates' would all be literally crying with laughter at the apparent failure of the step over pirouette on one leg resulting in my discovering break dancing years before it ever became popular culture as I crashed to the floor with one leg still turning like a helicopter rotor blade!

So fast forward 30 years to Heebie jeebies nightclub in Liverpool at three o'clock on a Friday morning. Needless to say our group of shall we say 'mature' years must have looked like the cast of cocoon on a night out when we walked in to a heaving mass of mostly student revellers, most of whom looked to have had more sambuca's than was clinically safe.

To my, and likely everybody else's relief the place is packed so there is no chance of the step over pirouette on one leg, thus saving the likely embarrassment and general mayhem that would surely have followed, plus the money the NHS would have had to shell out to put me back together again afterwards!

Nevertheless I am strangely caught up in the modern club music sound which I can only describe as Zombie house garage thump, everything seems to pulsate and oscillate and there is a strobe light which seems capable of performing laser eye surgery at 50 feet thus nullifying the need to ever go to spec savers again.

I soon realise that my companions have all started to move their bodies in a strange and somewhat amusing way and before long I can feel that I too have started an alcohol induced rhythmic swaying which if left unchecked will likely degenerate into middle aged man twerking, which some of you will know is somewhat unsightly and frankly disturbing!

Despite this obvious danger I begin to move my arms in a way which I am convinced demonstrates my superb body popping ability, sadly it only served to demonstrate my undeniable drink spilling ability and alerted a young lady nearby who had clearly recently completed a first aid course and is convinced I am having a seizure.

Fortunately our group contained two consultant physicians so I was able to elicit a second opinion which was rather fortunate because though it did not provide me with a totally clean bill of health, it was enough to make my young saviour desist from wrestling me to the ground to place me in the recovery position!

So it was at 3.23am on that Friday morning that I had the latest in a long series of light bulb moments. I realised that I was no longer king of clubs, no longer the Lord of the dance, there was to be no more step over pirouettes on one leg. With a heavy heart and an equally heavy head I filed quietly to the entrance, said goodnight to the doormen and disappeared into the night,... to queue for a cab.

True Love

Two things happen whenever I attempt to tell porkies to my better half, The first is I develop a slight ssstammer which of course underlines an anxiety caused by the certain knowledge that I will  inevitably be rumbled and the second is my good lady adopts a condescending 'don't lie to me' tone of voice similar to that of a primary school teacher who has recently won the smug teacher of the year award from the University of Smug, which confirms that I have indeed been found out.

 Bearing this in mind it is all the more incredible that I try it on in the first place as any attempted deceit is almost certainly doomed to failure and I must suffer the excruciating embarrassment of having my story picked apart and exposed for the flimsy fabrication that an eight year old would find wholly unsuitable as excuse fodder to run past their mother.

"Why do you lie?" the smug primary teacher asks;
"BBBBecause I'm good at it" I lie,
"Why are you stammering?"
"BBecause I'm stressed, anyway you shouldn't mock the affected!"
"It's afflicted"
"What?"
"Afflicted, The phrase is you shouldn't mock the afflicted"
"Since when have you become a primary school teacher?, that's your sister"
"It's in the genes"
"Oh really"
"No I'm lying"
"You're not stammering"
"No, I'm not stressed"
"You're smug though"
"No I'm not"
"You are!, You're like a squirrel who's just received the nut collector of the year award from 'Bushy tail magazine'"
She laughs in the old infectious way that attracted me in the first place.
"Give me a hug you silly old fool"
"Loves you" I say, without a hint of a stammer.

No Dope! Chirps Is Going for Gold

As this is an Olympic year and the prospect of a parisian summer spectacle gets ever closer, I think the time is right to bring to your attention my own recent attempt to climb to the top of the podium in my chosen sport and at the same time become a local sporting legend.
Following about 6 minutes training and preparation before lunch one day I was ready to participate in the infamous Janner game, held over twenty minutes in Tesco's car park.

 All the big names in alternative sports were there including Charlie 'chippie' Buttey, who along with being a respected Welly boot thrower, also claimed his day job to be a proficient carpenter & joiner but sadly he couldn't even join up his writing. 

Mickey Taker, a prolific moaner and benefits claimer was also present along with Flatiree gimmepinumba, the current worlds top e-mailer scammer who flew in from the back of a Vespa scooter when his front wheel hit a very nasty rut and catapulted him out over the handlebars. 

Unfortunately his scooter was rendered totally useless as the front wheel had a puncture, you could say Flatiree had a Flatiree.............,

Luckily there was a break in the weather, which allowed us to safely remove our waterproof shell-suits and undertake 30 seconds of warming up, which consisted mainly of taking long drags on some West Indian Woodbine's and a few swigs from a bottle of Gunge home brew, which despite having a taste similar to turps mixed with battery acid, proved surprisingly popular! Saying this of course may lead you to believe that the event was not being taken seriously but nothing could be closer to the truth...

There followed a very stringent dope test, which I am proud to say I passed, (apparently A1, right up there with the best of the best!) It must have been a very good result as the examiner couldn't contain his delight when telling me the good news!

"Oh yes" he said barely able to keep a straight face,
"You passed the dope test alright, don't worry about that son!"

In the event itself sadly it was a case of what might have been..Representing my native Kernowstan in the A4 paper aeroplane hurling competition I made a very promising start, hurling an impressive 4 metres and 20 centimetres with my first attempt. 

Better was to follow when having 'fouled' with my second round hurl I threw a massive 4 metres 95 centimetres (a personal best!) in the third round. Unfortunately for me, before this monster throw could be verified by the Marshall, Mr Richard Monitor, affectionately known as 'Dick Measure' by the competitors, a Highland Terrier called 'Plops' rushed from the crowd /trio  (delete as appropriate) picked up my slightly crumpled origami and rushed off with it teaching it a damn good lesson, furiously shaking it's head from side to side before dropping and peeing on it.

Of course it goes without saying that having been on an incredible 'journey' to get in the peak of physical out of condition for this event 'Plops' became an even less popular dog than that other hound that roamed just up the road at Baskerville Hall.

I suddenly felt the need for some lighter liquid refreshment than the effluent on offer at the event and so I trudged rather unsteadily off in the direction of the pub, (the effects of Gunge beginning to take a firm hold), to reflect on my day. My misery was now complete as it had begun to rain steadily, so I turned back in the hope I could rescue my waterproofs but to my horror I caught sight of plops furiously humping them while proceeding to drag them through a large muddy puddle.
That was the moment I realised that my chances of ever winning gold at paper plane hurling were roughly the same as Plops becoming best in breed at Crufts, not a barking dogs chance. 

Ah well there's still time to find another sport to try, I've heard intermediate bullshitting is fairly easy to learn, I might give that a go, Bring on Paris!!

Authors note: All characters are completely fictional and are used only with humorous intent and any similarity between them and any living people is completely incidental.

The Importance Of Being Cutest

How come whenever I am under the weather and generally feeling like I'm top of the grim reapers 'to do' list, I am invariably diagnosed as having man flu, which as all men will know is a potentially life threatening condition but bizarrely seems to have a medical seriousness classification from women roughly similar to hiccups! 

The considered opinion from these female 'medics' is that the ailing patient would be best advised to take 2 paracetamol and 'grow a pair'. 

A pair of what? New lungs?

This of course contrasts sharply to when the pet dog is off his food for a day.

He is whisked off to see the modern day equivalent of Dick Turpin, i.e the Vet and has a blood and urine test and later an ultrasound scan. After all this there follows the earnest enquiry, 'Is there anymore you can do for him?' 

WHAAAAT!!!

I am therefore left in little doubt just who is considered to be irreplaceable in our household and who is likely to be put out with the recycling!

I realise that the dog has such a hold on the affections of my beloved due in no small measure to his 'cuteness'  that equitable treatment in the malady department will be forever denied unless I am able to reproduce this appeal myself, in which case my life would become exponentially easier and more comfortable, so I hatched a devious plan.

I always try to learn from others who seem to be able to influence people, feel happy in their own skin and live the life that they desire with little or no effort!

With this in mind I have taken this past week to curling up on the sofa and snoring loudly, waking only to receive nourishment and copious amounts of affection.This strategy seems to work very well indeed for our Cocky Spaniel so I figured I would give it a try.

As experiments go it could not in any way be deemed a success, indeed it would seem that there is the very real danger that trying to 'be more dog' can have serious repercussions on the harmonious house front and put certain baggy parts of my anatomy in grave danger! 

I found out to my cost that no amount of my trying to give it the old puppy dog eyes can in any way replicate the real thing, which is a tad annoying when 'he' makes no effort to be cute and alluring but nevertheless succeeds on all levels while I retain all the allure of a sumo wrestlers mawashi after a particularly long and arduous bout!

This being the case I have decided to rouse myself from the couch and attend to some jobs around the house. As long as I don't make a complete dogs dinner of these chores, I feel sure that enough brownie points will be accrued such that I return to my rightful place as Mr cutie Luvva man, as past failings will inevitably fade from the memory.

Now I should point out to any aspiring house husbands three very important points that should be considered prior to tackling any household works:

1) Pick a chore that is obvious to see has made a difference. An outdoor example here would be mowing the grass.

2) Always check for time saving hacks and pitfalls to avoid on youtube before commencing if not completely sure of how to achieve your goals and then decide whether you have either the nous or inclination to take on the task.

3) Ensure you have an excuse clear in your mind for using when the wife gets home if you have failed to at least start something!

Hopefully, if you follow these guidelines you will always have things under control, at least in your own mind!

Wait a minute, I haven't done any chores around the house today and the wife's due home in ten minutes!

Horse dung! I can't think of a good excuse as now I'm annoyed and confused, which before anyone else says it, is not an entirely unique situation. Recently lycra clad pedal pushers, outdoor masterchefs and birds with flash waistcoats tweeting too much have all either annoyed or confused me! Oh dear it's all too much for me, I feel ill, the man flu's back.I think I'll just curl up on the sofa again and go to sleep. I bet when my girl gets home she'll think: "Aw, he must be feeling rough again but doesn't he look cute"

A creature with puppy dog eyes and a dog trying to look cute!

Shabby Chic For Miss Minogue!

Some people consider me to be one of life's eternal optimists, Strangely I'm at a loss to know why, although I do admit to being one of the 18 people who voted for the Liberal democrats in the UK general election of 2015 having fallen for Nick Cleggs 'Coalition has been good' mantra and I also remain oddly convinced that it is only a matter of time before Kylie accepts my earnest, and if I may say so, rather generous offer of a couple of Fosters down my local before walking with me hand in hand round to the chippie for cod, chips and mushy peas,.... Yeah I know I should be so lucky...lucky lucky lucky...

 Be that as it may my own (fairly) positive attitude pales into insignificance when compared to some others. You know the type, they remain annoyingly upbeat in the face of overwhelming odds against them and genuinely expectant that 'something will turn up' to justify this stance, despite nothing ever having turned up in their entire lives before and no evidence that anything is likely to change in this position in the foreseeable future.They of course see the best in everyone and indeed everything, constantly reminding you that if you can't say something nice, then you shouldn't say anything at all. That you should strive to live every day as if it's your last and generally being a right royal pain in the backside. This Ned Flanders 'niceness' only serves to make them seem faintly false, patronising and inevitably susceptible to bouts of outrageous smugness.

So imagine my horror when one of the aforementioned annoyingly bobbish folk referred to me in general conversation as a little bit 'Shabby Chic'. Now style guru's will know that the term 'Shabby Chic' consists of one word too many and indeed the vast majority of items offered for sale described as such are found lacking in the 'chic' department roughly in the order of 100%.

Also consider this,'Shabby Chic' usually refers to an old worn out chest of drawers with scratch marks on the top of a dodgy greenish grey paint job with its look finished off by having some of its drawer pulls forlornly hanging out of worn out holes or worse completely missing! Furthermore these items can also be described, (more appropriately perhaps) as  'distressed' which of course usually means exactly the same thing, only with more scratches and knobs missing for about 20 quid more!

So there you have it, Nick Clegg has seen the light, annoyingly optimistic folk think I've seen better days and Kylie isn't a lady to be seen at all.................................yet.

Distressed? You got that right at least.

A Shabby Chic clock face next to a fine timepiece

Authors footnote;
Other Lagers and lovely lady mega star's are available.

Chirps Keep Up With The Foodie Blogs...... Blog

It would seem that I have been labouring under the flawed perception that to secure and nurture a bigger audience for my various scattered scribblings all I needed to do was document my thoughts and observations on 'life' as I know it, lay it bare for the great general public, warts and all in bite size portions in the form of a blog and they would flock to be a part of the greater Chirps community.

 Now this has in part become a reality with an encouragingly healthy readership and page views numbering several thousand prompting me to go about my business displaying a serene smugness that only Jacob Rees-Mogg could ever hope to match.

 So imagine if you will my angst when on listening to the radio the other day, a young lady was interviewed who apparently writes a 'foodie' blog and has her own you tube site where she demonstrates how to prepare various' dishes' and has collective page views/watches of her sites numbering some 2million odd!   What the Spag Bol is that all about?  

Some Delia wannabee with an 'A' level in home economics wiping the floor with chirps! but then I quickly began to wonder whether this demonstrates the obsession the populace seem to have with anything food related, from Masterchef to Come dine with me and the almost 'cult' followings for celebrity' chefs.

 Perhaps then I thought, the way to capture more readers is to incorporate food related stuff and features such as a 'recipe of the month' to 'wow' my audience and encourage their participation.

 The obvious problem with this approach is that I know next to nothing about food preparation, nor do I claim any skills on its presentation thus ensuring that a 'recipe of the month' feature would extend to roughly 3 months max before exhausting my total recall of culinary delights that I have prepared and not had to call the fire brigade out afterwards to extinguish the inferno thus created! 

I fear I am not alone in this dearth of knowledge surrounding all things gastronomic, frequent readers may remember a post from last year, The Outdoor Masterchef which adequately sums up the cooking abilities of the common man!


http://clivevincent00.blogspot.co.uk/2014/06/the-outdoor-masterchef.html

Notwithstanding this, some might say obvious drawback, I'm going to give it a go, I mean how hard can it be? Just need to think up some tasty dishes, give them the requisite flourish of Frenchness to effectively demonstrate how removed they are from ordinary everyday dishes you may have heard of and Blanc's your uncle as they say in Provence!. .

So here goes, for my first recipe I give you something I've called 'Beanzez a la top of de tost'

mmmm it's making me salivate all ready!

First open a tin of Stewed Haricot beans in a rich Tomato sauce and place them in a saucepan on top of a gentle heat on your hob. allow them to come to the boil before reducing the heat and allowing them to simmer for a couple of minutes.

Whilst they are warming put two pieces of sliced bread or ' du pain' in the slots on an electric toaster and liberally butter when they 'pop out',
Next spoon the warm beans over the buttered 'Tost' apply a little black pepper and brown sauce to your own taste and serve with a fine glass of Adams ale and a winning smile. A Voila!

Now I'll admit that this recipe may at first sight seem a little similar to another rather well known one but I would point out the cunning addition of brown sauce which of course makes it totally unique.

So there you have it, my new food themed blog is up and running! can't wait for next months feature and second 'Recipe of the month' which I'm calling 'Frommages a la top of de tost'
.............................................What?

Top Chefs are excited by Vino's latest sensational recipe 'Beanzez a la top of de tost'

*Photo courtesy bbc

The Outdoor Masterchef

Ah summer will soon be here, with its long hot sticky days and still sultry evenings which of course means its the time of year when men get out a ludicrous pair of Bermuda shorts, slip on the apron with the ladies boobies on it and don an ill fitting pair of flip flops before announcing that they are inviting a few friends round and having a barbecue. 

Now quite what gives guys the mistaken belief that they have the necessary skills to essentially light a fire outdoors and cook a tasty meal on it I cannot quite work out. It is especially baffling when you consider the complete lack of ability displayed in the kitchen at all other times, despite being presented with a machine which can be pre-programmed to the correct temperature and time required to cook dishes precisely. Somehow an oven is considered to be a woman's tool and the kitchen very much their domain but outdoors? well that's a different matter.Men it seems find the urge to revert to their old hunter gatherer roots which means they pick up a box of matches, tuck a  'Ray Mears goes wild' pocket book into their shorts and head out to 'light up'.
This of course should be relatively straightforward but the handy book only covers lighting a fire using two sticks and a piece of vine used as string so it's quickly discarded and lighting cubes are deployed and lit and our outdoor hero stands back and awaits the fire to take hold and grow. However he has reckoned without the toll a miserable damp winter has had on the briquettes which having resided in the far from watertight shed have absorbed enough moisture to make them resemble small black water melons and make lighting them an act of the purest optimism as they steadfastly refuse to burn. Various accelerants are then poured on in an effort to speed up the lighting process which only results in three guests needing checking over at the local emergency department suffering the effects of smoke inhalation.

"What do you mean 3 people have collapsed?"

Eventually though because of all the flammable liquids administered an inferno develops and cooking commences but this serves to incinerate the outside of the burgers while leaving the inside rawer than an egg just leaving a chickens bottom so the 'chef de partie' leaves the meat on the fire until resembling charcoal. Those guests still remaining relatively well perfused with oxygen then tuck in, nodding their heads appreciatively and various murmurings can be heard complimenting the salad and the bread rolls;
"Oh" says the wife playing coyly with a tousel of hair, "Its just something I knocked up quick with some bits from Waitrose"
A loud tut is heard from our man but despite his best efforts the only feedback the Barbie Meister gets is 'You don't half look funny without eyebrows'
This of course rankles him immensely, so he does what all self respecting Alpha males would do in such a situation;
He removes his apron, opens another can of extra strong lager and gently lobs 'Ray Mears goes wild' on to the now dying embers. The outdoor Masterchef hereby resigns!

A bird in the hand or rather the gutter

With spring now on the near horizon I am mentally preparing myself for the annual battle with a very noisy bird who seems to get up and start chirping at ridiculous o'clock while rifling through the contents of the gutter which runs just above my bedroom window.  I am no ornithologist but I am certain the culprit is one of those fawny birds with a flash waistcoat, we'll call him Robin flash waistcoat. 

While I am not insensitive to the needs of this creature to advertise and display his melodic prowess to the rest of the garden inhabitants I am now preparing for the certain sleep deprivation that weeks of early morning calls will undoubtedly cause.  

You may argue that I shouldn't be surprised that anything that starts life in a shell suit becomes a noisy neighbour, nor bear them any ill will but the more I think about the perks of being a bird the harder it is for me not to feel a sense of injustice with it all.
For instance birds can dump on you from a great height with no comeback;
They never have to queue at the supermarket till to get their food:
They can build a place to live without requiring planning permission and even better only need some twigs and moss to do it and best of all be jobless and not have any desire to watch daytime TV!

Hmmmm I can see why Robin flash waistcoat feels he has something to sing about!.

Perhaps i'll tweet him to see if he'll stop. ☺

Wise Men Say Only Tools Rush In

It would seem that as I get older, I shall be getting wiser, which is great! Nothing, it appears, is required of me to acquire this wondrous ability as I am led to believe by various family, friends and assorted sages that as long as I stay alive, it is a rite of passage. Apparently I can sit back and await wisdom and the associated prestige that 'guru' status allows.

 I have little reason to doubt this will be the case and consequently I look forward to shortly being able to tie my own shoe laces and perhaps even understand why the bloke who lives down the road shouts at the pigeons for no apparent reason every morning. 

However all this newly acquired wisdom may not I fear be enough to answer some fundamental questions on everyday life that have been bothering the chirps out of me for some considerable time.

For instance;
Why do first things always have to come first? Bit selfish.

Secondly,why did I ask the above question first?

Also, if it rains 'cats and dogs' why have I never been struck over the head  by a medium sized domestic animal?

Plus why do all female violinists appear absolutely stunning while their male counterparts seem to be fifty something balding guys with dubious moustaches?

And why do I insist on writing this crap when the readership consists of me, my auntie Betty, her budgie 'Pete' and a selection of robots in Google town, USA?

Yes many mysterious things it seems are designed to irritate me and remain steadfastly unanswered.

Despite this I remain on the whole quite positive, as it seems even when the dark clouds of complete foolhardiness surround me there always appears a bright light, a shining beacon that lifts the gloom and allows an uplift in my spirits. For proof of this I'd like to share something with you;

A few years ago I was heard to say rather belligerently that there was more chance of me having a hot date with Kylie than Donald Trump ever becoming president of the U.S! So after the election and my initial reaction of 'WHY AMERICA? I was much more upbeat as I looked again at my initial statement and saw the odds of a good night out with pop royalty tumbling in my favour!

Fast forward and now we move into another election year across the pond and its looking like he could just do it again and become a square man in an oval office for a second time!

So C'mon, surely now is my moment?? I am convinced that something more than just my tummy burp residue is in the air! I am happily reading my copy of 'I should be so lucky', A dummies guide, and looking forward to Kylie's imminent friend request on facepull. A necessary first step I'm sure you will agree? after all, first things first, I don't want to rush in, you know what wise men say!........................

A very happy and peaceful election year to you all!

The Gamble Of Life

Now it cannot be denied that as a responsible member of society and all round good guy I have until now managed to avoid any major mishaps when encountering the various pitfalls that life has thrown up on a regular basis. I'll admit that much of this has been down to good old lady luck but I must also contend that there is also 'evidence' of excellent decision making and a healthy aversion to risk, leading me to coin the phrase "You wouldn't catch me doing that" on a regular basis.

However there is a group of people who never miss the opportunity to bleat on about how positive they are, how they are 'self made' and if they can do it, so can you, Why you should not be, 'sheltering from the storm', but you should learn to 'dance in the rain'.

 After vomiting the entire contents of your stomach at their feet you may be minded to remind them of the severe Health & Safety risk this attitude presents. After all when prancing about in a storm you run the very real risk of getting thoroughly drenched, not to mention colder than a penguins chuff which of course means almost certain death from bronchial pneumonia if you should reside anywhere in the northern hemisphere.

If all else fails to kill you there is always that old favourite of being struck by lightning. Now if you fancy a little flutter you may want to bear in mind that you are far more likely to suffer this unfortunate event than actually winning a lottery jackpot. In the UK 'being struck' equates to roughly a 3 million to one chance which means it is over 4 times more likely than winning the UK main lottery!

 In the U.S it stacks up even more with the chances of being struck at around 700,000 to one. Move to Florida and you should get your affairs in order as a matter of urgency as your 3 iron will almost certainly become a fully functioning lightning conductor before reaching the seventh tee! I tell you all this to provide some perspective to a tale from my earlier years when I suffered the trauma of having electricity use my body as a super highway to the ground.

At age 8  I was challenged by my older brother to see who could keep their wee directed onto the electric fence wire surrounding a fine piece of pasture which was making the herd of Guernsey cattle literally drool as they chomped away at it!

It will not surprise you that I duly won the challenge, thereby disproving my brothers assertion that I was a bit of a div. However the jolt of current that flowed up my juvenile jolly roger was sufficient to throw me back and upwards in a sort of Fosbury flop fully two years before the great Dick Fosbury premiered a similar manoeuvre and became a sporting legend at the Mexico Olympics. Landing with a hard jolt on my still forming vertebrae was bad enough, but this in itself would not have been a great problem were it not for the fact that I was now suffering a todger spasm of epic proportions and had nowhere near an empty bladder. This led me to the realisation that what goes up as a spurt, returns to earth as a rather more widespread shower. One thing that I am convinced of from this experience is that urine shampoo will never catch on, it stings the eyes way too much and frankly makes the hair smell and indeed look like a five year old toilet brush!
This would be considered a bad enough day in most peoples eyes but unfortunately for me I then chose an ill advised course of action which resulted in far worse ignominy. I ran off crying, intending to report this event to my mother which would inevitably bring down on my brother the severest of sanctions but running almost blindly from a combination of tears and salt from my own urine I stumbled on a rut made by one of the aforementioned residents of the field. I cannot quite remember now what I thought as I flew parallel to the ground for four feet before my face burrowed deep into a cow pat the size of a satellite dish.

 Perhaps I wondered idly, "What were the odds on that"  mmm probably not, I think it rhymed with "clucking bell".  

Flushed With Success....... And Copious Amounts Of Loo Roll

Despite being markedly closer to death than birth, I have until recently managed to avoid any of life's more debilitating and embarrassing ailments that invariably see you regarded as 'over the hill and under the doctor' as my gran would say.

That all changed the other day when I developed a variety of symptoms more commonly associated with grazing herds of cattle and flatulent hippopotamus.

 This in itself would once have been highly amusing but my stomach also seemed to forget when and how often potty time was. You could say that it was 'driving me round the bend' if you really wanted to tell a CRAP joke,..................

................Anyway I thought it prudent to visit my local physician.

To say I was not overly looking forward to this experience would be a major under-statement as I feared a thorough cross examination of the intimate details of my malady coupled with some kind of poking and prodding. 

It would be weird if you didn't feel a certain amount of dread as you wait for your 10 minute slot in the medics consulting room but this, I should stress is not something that should be allowed to get in the way of getting the expert help and advice you need.
Men in particular seem reluctant to admit they may need to 'have it looked at' when it comes to anything amiss between the waist and the knees.

To be frank, I think the average man would rather spend a morning ironing at the mother in laws than have someone gazing up their hairy harris, or worse, fiddling with the odd assortment of gentleman's unmentionables housed securely inside their sturdy pair of Calvin Klein's. 

This is especially true if they're past 50 as this will normally mean the insertion of a gloved digit in a northerly direction up the old Khyber pass to check the prostate is behaving itself. That's usually thrown in on the house!

I digress though, as being someone who promotes himself as an International man of mystery, incredibly sexy and ready to deploy to any corner of the globe at a moments notice, it was completely against my nature to sit, with some trepidation in the waiting room watching Homes under the Hammer thinking, Hmm, A bidet, that looks just the job, I must get one. 

As it turned out I needn't have worried as the doctor who had the somewhat dubious honour of providing the consultation was;

A)   A man. This made the recounting of my story less difficult though I have no idea why? As if a female doctor would have anything more than a passing professional interest in my bowel's dodgy performance.

B)  The aforementioned male doctor was a very affable chap who quickly passed me on to my local hospital "because even if I did an examination today I would still want you to have this looked at by having a colonoscopy"

This brief moment of relief was cut cruelly short as I was handed a small booklet outlining what a colonoscopy entails. It would not be a surprise if my squeals of terror where heard somewhere in Northern France! 

A pole up my arse?? Are you serious???

I left immediately and on the way home called in to the DIY store where another helpful young man asked:
"Can I help you sir?"
"Yes I'm interested in buying a bidet" I replied, "oh and I'll need some industrial strength sani-cloths.......scented please, Floral valley if you've got it"

"I'm on it" he said, enthusiastically.

Yeah, me too shortly, I thought despondently.

The Lycra Fashionista On Two Wheels

Norman Tebbit could not have known what he would be starting when, after the Brixton riots of 1981, he made his infamous (often mis-quoted) remark that his father, when he found himself out of work, rather than rioting, 'got on his bike' to look for a job!

 It was suggested that he implored people in similar situations and tempted therefore to throw bricks through Curry's window and walk off with the latest tv to do the same thing !

This though was just a tabloid myth designed to provoke outrage and portray the good lord as completely out of touch, and insensitive to the hardships faced by ordinary working class folk.

Be that as it may it cannot be argued that whether meant or not his intervention coupled with the promise of being incinerated by global warming if we use anything with a combustion engine bigger than a lawn mower has resulted in more and more people getting out and about on their bikes.

 All very comforting given that millions of pounds of public money has been spent on providing bespoke cycle ways and tracks while it seems acceptable for the road network to be left crater strewn and untended for months making travelling on them in anything other than a lunar rover a bone jarring nightmare!

 Of course the 'commute' often means that the bulk of cycling is done on those very same lethal roads into major towns and cities while the cycle network is left for Sundays and bank holidays.

This is mildly irritating but would on its own be fairly palatable, were it not for the hideous 'uniform' that the intrepid cyclist feels is the appropriate garb to wear when 'pumpin the pedals'.  

In times gone by we would tuck our trouser leg into our socks, (this being vital to ensure the trousers didn't catch in the chain mechanism resulting in a lower limb amputation)

We'd turn our cap the wrong way around and mount the trusty steed handed down by our dad which despite having Sturmey Archer 3 speed and dynamo lighting also weighed as much as a washing machine and had a hideously buckled front wheel which invariably rubbed against the brake rubbers making forward progress almost impossible!

 Nevertheless pops used it every day for work before he succumbed to an arthritic knee which swelled to the size of a football with any exertion. This meant therefore that a car had to be invested in, consigning my siblings and I to the ravages of the planet heating up exponentially and it seemed, the almost daily use of jump leads.

These days things are very different! It appears that the only way to be seen on a bike is to don garments making yourself look like you have come straight from a Lycra fetish party and complete the outfit by wearing a natty helmet fitted with a camera. 

This presumably is so they can film themselves breaking the law every day while riding a carbon fibre wafer costing roughly the same as a Brighton Semi.

 Men in particular, most of whom appear old enough to know better, seem to feel it is vital to be seen in the latest body hugging, streamlined apparel, so much so, some it would seem even insist on keeping their bicycle pump tucked in the front of their shorts, presumably to reduce drag. What is that all about? It is a frankly terrifying sight!

Of course riders say that they get an enormous amount of pleasure from getting 'out and about' and have become seduced into thinking that a daily dice with death is in someway a healthy and relaxing thing to do and good for the planet.

 Nothing of course could be further from the truth as the life expectancy of the average pedal pusher using main roads is something around 3 weeks.

 This is not because they will be hit by Tyler the tearaway, 'Sexting' his girlfriend while caning his Corsa, No, cyclists are far more likely to disappear into a pot hole abyss the size of Derby, while trying to adjust the position of their pump, furiously chafing their gentlemen's essentials on the saddle!

So would I ever fancy getting back into cycling?......On Yer Bike!

When Punching Yourself In The Face Is The Best Option!

no

Throughout my life I seem to have prompted people to roll their eyes at me on a fairly frequent basis. I am not sure why I seem to attract this reaction as often as I do, I would like to think that people are surprised at my knowledge and insight and are kind of awe struck into this facial gesture as they admire once again my wisdom and humour.

 However I am becoming increasingly concerned that it means nothing of the kind and I now suspect it to be an accompanying mannerism to a 'What a complete tool you are' kind of thought.

 One of my earliest memories of this eye rolling phenomenon is as a four year old when a very old man introduced himself to me as my Great Grandfather". I was immediately on my guard with this old codger as anyone who puts 'Great' in their job title is to be treated with the utmost suspicion!

 Talk about biggin yourself up I thought, if anyone should be grading his Grand-Dadding abilities it should surely be me!. So my response was predictable, "What's great about you?"  I mumbled.The room fell silent for a few seconds before my mother laughed nervously giving the eye roll a full flourish.

 My reward for my incredulity was to receive one of those 'you young pup' cheek pinches which were frequently administered in days gone by when you could touch a child without infringing their human rights and usually given just hard enough to ensure a nosebleed but no tears or bruising and accompanied by the phrase 'You little rascal!' 

Fast forward fifty years and this morning I have yet again been on the end of the exasperated eye roll. I met with two female friends, who I'll call Susan and Angela,  who work in the same building as myself and after some good humoured banter the conversation took a dark and morbid turn when Susan reported that her 'man' had upped and left her and she was feeling a little fragile and found herself uncontrollably bursting into tears at random times during the day.

 This information would have been unsettling in isolation but the recounting of it had a severe effect on her emotional state and the aforementioned sobbing began in earnest. Angela, predictably was compassionate and soothing, placing her arm around her and providing the kind of support that only true friends can. Whilst doing this she looked over her shoulder at me and gave me a screwed up face look which I interpreted as 'say something moron!'

Now, in retrospect, I am not sure whether it was panic or mental illness which made me say what I did but suffice to say it did little to help the situation, rather it was akin to pouring petrol on a fire in an attempt to put it out. 

"At least you won't be kept awake by his snoring anymore" I blurted complete with a matey wink at Angela signalling that I had interpreted her message and reacted with the cool assurance expected of me.

What followed was nothing short of mayhem and I will not bore you with all the details other than it began with the most icy eye roll I have ever witnessed, such was its venom I began to have serious concerns for the collection of odds and sods housed in their cotton enclosure between my legs,
"How did that counselling job interview go" Angela spat at me, clutching her friend ever tighter.
I gave a little nervous smile "Oh you know, just couldn't relate to it"

For what seemed a long while there was complete silence. I imagined tumbleweed drifting past on the breeze and wished I could somehow just walk off. Then Susan turned around and simply said "Dick!"

What a time to forget my name I thought rolling my eyes for effect.