Left-Over Posts? Snippets Not Quite Meaty Enough On Their Own To Make A Satisfying Post?
This Is The Place To Come To Use Them Up.

Wednesday, 27 April 2011

Tidying Up

As instructed , I've just cleared the back of my fridge of recent scraps :

I parted with nearly seventy Euros at the DIY shop and spent Easter weekend up a ladder painting the outside of our kitchen window frame. I'm now going to find out what a housepainter charges per hour.

The pre-schoolers were asked today what their favourite fruit was . Most liked apples and bananas , the odd one liked grapes . The really odd one said " Mine is pears because they taste like bananas ."

There is such a thing as being too diffident . An extremely polite friend was told last week on the 'phone that there was no need to see the doctor about her sprained ankle . Today she finally asked again and ended up spending the rest of the morning in A&E . She'd actually broken it .

Monday, 25 April 2011

Double Dactyl

Happily drinkily,
cheekily tiddley,
here's to the toper with
bottomless pit.
Boozily tippleing-
after the wine has gone,
who gives a s**t?

N.B. This was inspired by the name only, not by anything enclosed in a bottle!

Monday, 18 April 2011

Good luck sis

My parents live in an apartment that is actually ours and they have bought new flooring. It’s something that looks like wood, but isn’t. And it’s not laminate flooring either. Nor is it vinyl. Oh no! Dare not say that it’s nice vinyl flooring, because my mother will kill you with her eyes! It’s PVC (I think). And it was very expensive. So there!

My mother turned 80 last month, my father is 87, or 88, I’m not quite sure. Anyway, they are at the age that their friends tend to exchange earth for eternity. With that thought in mind, my mother said: “When we die, and you’re going to sell the apartment, you’ll have to remove the flooring and lay it in your house. You can easily remove it and it wasn’t a cheap floor (we know mom, we know), and other people will perhaps not appreciate it and throw it in a skip. That will be such a shame!”

“We have to lay it in our house?”, I said.

“Or don’t you like it!”, she snapped.

“Yeah. I like it here. But not in my house”, I carefully tried to soften the blow. “Besides, you’ll be dead. I don’t think you’ll be that interested in what happens to your floor when you're dead. You’ll have other things on your mind.”

And then she gave me that look that I always get. The one in which she suggests I’m not all there upstairs. If you know what I mean.
I just think I’m funny. In the ‘haha’ way.
She’ll probably try to convince my sister next that she needs a new floor in her house somewhere, when they can’t enjoy their NOT vinyl floor themselves anymore.

Sunday, 17 April 2011

Surely I'm far too young to be saying 'in the old days', but here I am, saying it

Jinksy's typewriter post made me all nostalgic.  I learned to type on a bangy-bangy old typewriter when I trained to be a medical secretary in the late 1970s, and in our classroom were two brand-new up-to-the-minute wondrous machines called (awed intake of breath) 'electronic typewriters'.  We secretarial students were on a rota to use them in lessons as there were only the two and it was seen as a special treat.  If you were naughty in lessons (as in, you brushed your hair before the bell went), you could forget your treat and you were kept on the old machines.

Now, I yearn for the days when just about the only thing that could go wrong with your typewriter was that the ribbon needed changing, and it was something we were all taught to do.  And my typewriter never hated me in the way my computer seems to even though I bashed hell out of it ....

One I Wish I'd Written!

My Typist
                 by Anthony C Payne

My typist is on her vacation
My typist’s away for a week:
My typist is on her vacation,
and these dam’ keys plau hode and seek.

On Minday I tride to wrote letyers
To sOme if our clietsn in Spain’
On Tuesday I hid to detroy th%m,
An write THem all ou7 once ag3in.

On WeenndsewesdaoiOy the office was busz
And I rell6 didn’t habe tome,
In Thrusdat I had to trpe faster
TO wr9t3 up “he min&tes in time.

On Frid9ay the pikles of blink papapaer
Which had to br trped wer@ immense.
Think ggodneses she crems bacle next Monda
And all WILL Aga9n mak3 godd sense.

With thanks to the KRAKX MAGAZINE, c/o 63 Dixon Lane, Leeds, LS12 4RR, UK

Friday, 15 April 2011


Seen today in the local shopping center :

" The Bilgaard Shopping Center Seeks Bicycle Shop "

Presumably for a LTR , not to mention ASAP . And , since the recently revamped center still has lots of empty spaces , ACA .

Wednesday, 13 April 2011

Brave New World, by Google


brave new world

After a donation made via Google some weeks ago, I received this email tonight.  Not even joking.   

Dear Deborah S,

Thanks for your recent purchase from Japanese Red Cross Society.

We'd appreciate hearing and sharing your experience. Please take a moment to tell us about it by filling in the form below. We will publish your review online so that others can learn from your experience. Your review will be linked to your Google account.


( )

5 stars

Excellent: I would definitely buy from this store again.

( )

4 stars


( )

3 stars


( )

2 stars


( )

1 star

Poor: I would discourage others from this store.

How was your overall experience with this store?


Review by Deborah S

By publishing your review, a public profile on Google will automatically be created.
You can change the nickname associated with your account at any time. Anyone who knows your email address could discover your Profile. Learn more

[Publish this Review]

Saturday, 9 April 2011


I am currently on a tear with scented lotions from Bath & Body Works. After every shower, I emerge from the bathroom wafting behind me a different citrusy or watery or flowery scent. 

Husband is often not complimentary about scented things. I used to ask him if he liked this or that perfume, and he would always say, "It smells good." A pause. "It smells like angel food cake." Angel food cake was the only thing that ever came to his mind if he liked a scent. So I don't ask anymore. He doesn't like scent for himself either, which just boggles my mind. "I don't want people smelling me!" he remarks with great disgust.

A related story: I went to a Jafra Cosmetics party once and came home all made up in "cool" colors...blues, purples, pinks. My skin was white as Snow White's. 
"How do I look?" I asked my husband.
"You look good. You look dead."

Yeah. I don't ask anymore. 

Tuesday, 5 April 2011

High Art

The Mona Lisa in the Louvres.

Not funny? Ok then, I'll blame others: Beloved came up with the original idea and Jay did the artwork.

Saturday, 2 April 2011

Apres-alarm dreaming II

I was meeting with my shrink in a huge huge auditorium size office.
"Do you have a copy of ...[some paper, a form for health care or something]?"
"Not with me, but it's in my employee file in Jane's office."
"You stay here and relax; I'll go get it," and he was out the door.
I sat in the chair my cheek atop a pillow that I was hugging. I dozed off. His secretary came in, looked around for him. I opened my eyes and said , "He'll be right back."
"Pardon me?"
I raised my voice as much as I could while half asleep: "He'll be back in a few minutes."
She left.

An official of Small Pond opened a side door and came into the auditorium/office. He greeted me with his faux bonhomie, stood looking around at the space for a minute and left. Other people came and went and eventually gathered as if for a meeting, a presentation of some kind, judging from the way they sat facing one wall.
The doctor came back, and strode the twenty feet from the door to my chair, leaned over and spoke softly to me. He's asking for [something] from your file, and what he's trying to do is completely illegal. Take this paper and go straight to the legal department."

I left the office and found myself in the big state office building where I used to work. I knew my office and the legal department were on a different floor but I couldn't remember if it was the fifth or sixth floor. I kept getting off the elevator and wandering around, getting lost in nooks and cul-de-sacs. I found the legal office and the attorney said to me, "Do nothing until you know what he's going to do. Do nothing until you have a piece of paper from him stating what the issue is." That made a great deal of sense to me, and I was relieved. 

Then my sister was there, all in a righteous huff about what "they're trying to do to you." I wanted to concentrate on what I had to do and she kept asking questions and being angry and I hardly spoke to her, but just let her rant. I found another office and explained to the secretary what I needed to do to head off the threat (I think it was a threat of retirement on disability) before the official had gotten well started on his action. She handed me a black plastic object with labels on it. It was oblong, shaped like a shirt cardboard. "Write me a 'Joseph Lieber' letter and put it in an envelope and stick it right here." She pointed to the labeled spot in the middle of the object. "...and bring it back to me."
"I don't know what a 'Joseph Lieber' letter is," I told her.
She smiled and said, "I think I can remember..." She clasped her hands at her waist, tipped her head back and rolled her eyes up to the ceiling. "It's fifty-eight purely factual sentences, stating your case." 

My sister and I rode up and down on the elevator for a while, she inanely chitchatting at people who wondered what in the world she was talking about. It was a Friday afternoon and they just wanted to get home. The elevator doors would open and I'd get out and she'd be in the middle of some monologue and miss the doors, so I would have to wait for her to realize that and come back. We finally got to the first floor and the exit doors and walked out. "No, this isn't right," she said, and turned to get back on the elevator. 
"C, it is right. There are the doors right there."
Shrugging and giggling: "Oh."
She had come to give me a ride home. She couldn't remember where she had parked her car but knew it was in front of a real estate office. She stood still, gazing over a big parking lot full of vehicles. I looked over my shoulder, saw a realtor's sign on the building and asked if that was the one. "That's the one!" she said, and instantly saw her car.
We got out on the road. I was thanking my lucky stars that I would soon be home where I could mull over the day's developments.
"How about this! I'll treat you to a leg massage before we go home! Wouldn't that be nice? We can stop at the salon on the way and you can get all relaxed..." She wore her bright, tense, I'm being determinedly cheerful to take your mind off things face. Always, with her, the extra length added to any excursion.
"I don't think so. Not today. I have a headache and I want to get home."

And then I woke up. I did, in fact, have a headache, and needed a cup of coffee.

I Googled Joseph Lieber. I don't know anyone by that name and wondered where I had come up with it.  
And "Joseph Lieber letter" brought me this: Swallowed Up in Space. It's only six sentences.