Monday, 29 June 2015

A Portrait of the Victor as a Young Man

There are times in life when, for no apparent reason, one's thoughts go back to the past and we reminisce from one story to another, from one person to another and so on go our thoughts almost with no control. This happened to me the other day as I sat by the fish pond in our back garden sipping a beer, and I saw a frog jump out of the bushes.

For some reason, that small creature reminded me of my first girl-friend all those years ago. Her name was Melba. I can't imagine what possessed her parents to give her that name; especially since her surname was Pye.

Anyway, Melba came to mind and I remember our first date when I took her to a French restaurant. She had frogs' legs; but the rest of her body was OK I suppose.

I had an open topped car at the time. A sporty looking little number. And I recalled how her hair used to blow in the wind as I sped up the highway. Then I had to stop and collect it for her.

She had a pleasant personality, rather quiet, and a little shy. I suppose it's because she was a little rotund and she considered herself overweight - a bit like her mother. I remember well the first day I met Melba's Mom. There was a solar eclipse that day.

They say if you want to know how your wife will turn out in years to come, just look at her mother. Well, Melba and her Mom were very large, to say the truth; but I wondered whether Melba will have a moustache too when she gets older.

Melba's father was often unemployed; although some would say he was unemployable. He sat at home watching TV and expected his wife to do all the work and feed him. He was so lazy that if he ever fainted he'd need someone to help him fall to the ground.

He once worked digging trenches on the road as part of a team so that engineers could lay in pipes, cables and so on. One day the team arrived and realised they had no tools with them. Melba's father phoned the depot and said they had forgotten to bring their shovels with them. The manager replied: "Never mind. Lean on each other in the meantime!"

Melba's parents lived in a small house on the poor side of town. I recall the house was so small that the mice were hunch-backed. And it was a cold and damp house too. So damp there was a permanent rainbow in the kitchen.

Melba's brother, Ivor was a right eighteen years old ruffian who hang out with the wrong crowd. He was always up to trouble and to be fair to him, until his late teens, he never knew what it felt like to be wanted. Until one day he saw his picture on the Police Notice Board.

He was arrested with another hooligan friend and taken to Court for riding a bicycle without any lights on at night. In his defence, he said the bicycle had no lights on when he stole it.

When the two lads appeared in Court the Judge looked at them knowingly, almost recognising them. He asked: "Have you two ever been up before me?"

"I don't know," answered Ivor, "what time do you get up?"

The Judge banged his gavel and asked Ivor's friend: "What's your address?"

The lad answered "I've no fixed abode."

He then asked Ivor: "And what's your address?"

Ivor responded "In the apartment above him!"

The Judge asked the boys whether they wanted to be tried by him; or by a jury. They did not know the difference. So the Judge explained: "A jury is a group of twelve people made up of your own peers. They are people like you!"

"No way mate," cried Ivor, "we don't want to be tried by a dozen thieves!"
 
The two boys had a good solicitor who managed to convince the Court, despite all evidence to the contrary,  that they had not stolen the bicycle.

As they were leaving Court Ivor asked the Judge "Does this mean we can keep the bicycle?"

As I sat there reminiscing about the past I wondered whatever happened to Melba. Our relationship did not last long; especially when she decided to become a wrestler and changed her name to Ten Ton Pye.

My last memory of her was seeing her wrestle at the local Arena wearing a green leotard suit which clung tightly to her every contour. She hopped from one end of the ring to another like a demented acrobat.

At that point, the frog jumped forward into the fish pond and awaked me from my reverie.

Another outrageous Portrait HERE

Saturday, 27 June 2015

Moving Mountains

“It was because you haven’t enough Faith,” answered Jesus. “I assure you that if you have Faith as big as a mustard seed, you can say to this hill, ‘Go from here to there!’ and it will go. You could do anything." Matthew 17:20.

Sometimes, we tend to take the Bible too literally. We forget that when Jesus spoke to His listeners He used the idiom and phrases commonly used at the time.

In Britain there’s a saying “Keep your hair on”, which means calm down, don’t get so excited and worked up, relax a little.

It would be wrong if 2000 years from now that saying were interpreted to mean an adverse comment on male baldness.

When Jesus referred to moving a hill He did not mean it literally. Miracles are not magic tricks, and the Holy Spirit, for it is He who performs miracles, not the disciples, and certainly not us – the Holy Spirit would not perform a miracle for no purpose.

In this context, the disciples had failed to drive out a demon from a young child. They asked Jesus why they had failed.

Jesus taught them, and us, that a pre-requisite to performing miracles is to have Faith in Him, in God, and in the Holy Spirit.

And yes … miracles do happen in this day and age, today even.

The problem is that we are too un-willing to believe.

Thursday, 25 June 2015

The Millionaire


Theodore Luxton-Joyce was a millionaire widower. He inherited wealth from his father Lord Joyce and he lived in a mansion on the edge of town in beautiful countryside surroundings. He drove a very old classic car which he prized above all else – or so it seemed, and he always wore a three-piece suit made of heavy woolen cloth and a Sherlock Holmes type hat. He carried an expensive gold watch in a small pocket in his vest with a gold chain leading up to a button hole to which it was attached.

He had a thick white toothbrush moustache punctuating a clean shaven thick set jaw and square face.

He often carried a walking stick with a silver plated lion’s head for a handle. It was just for effect of course, he being a fit and truly handsome sixty year old gentleman.

He was certainly quite a sight around town in his luxury old automobile, his attire and walking stick, not to mention of course his perfect English accent no doubt taught him in the best private schools.

He was often teased by people saying he’d been born in the wrong age; and he’d fit better in Victorian times or thereabouts. He’d chuckle heartily and say “And what grand times they were for England … I’d certainly would have improved them by my mere presence …”

Perhaps he didn’t know it, but he was a real romantic at heart, not that he would admit it to anyone of course. It would probably ruin his image, he thought, as the tough talking lord of the manor with no time for such nonsense.

Deep down, however, he was a kind and gentle man and had never forgotten his beloved departed wife. He prayed for her, as best he could, and often asked Father Ignatius to celebrate Mass for the repose of her soul; on her birthday, their wedding day and on the anniversary of her death.

But secretly of course … he never announced the Mass intention in the Church’s Newsletter as was customary in St Vincent Parish. The Mass, always on a Sunday, would be posted in the Newsletter as “Private Intention” and he’d attend and sit on the front pew, and wink gently at Father Ignatius as he came out of the Sacristy and on to the Altar.

One evening Father Ignatius visited Theodore in his mansion, at the man’s invitation, for a private chat.

Father Ignatius was rather intrigued as he waited in the large library filled with books which had never been opened or read for ages. He’d never visited the mansion before, and from what he had seen so far, he understood why people suggested Theodore was born in the wrong age. He’d only been there for half-an-hour and he’d already met the gardener busily pruning the prize rose bushes, the butler who opened the front door and the maid who brought him tea served in the best porcelain and expensive biscuits which you would certainly not find at the supermarket!

Theodore claimed he lived alone, which is strictly true, if you don’t count the live-in entourage of staff to look after the house and surrounding land.

Moments later the butler opened the door and in came Theodore. He was wearing bright red tartan trousers, a dark blue open-necked shirt and a large cravat round his neck held together by a red jewel on a ring, and a navy blue blazer with the initials TLJ embroidered in gold on the lapel.

Father Ignatius did not flinch a muscle, but smiled silently deep within his soul.

“How nice of you to agree to meet me …” said Theodore, as the butler left the room closing the door behind him, “I’d like a private chat if I may … one cannot be seen visiting you in Church you understand!”

“I understand …” said the priest sitting down again.

“Jolly good … but first let me offer you something stronger than Darjeeling tea … I have the finest selection of single malt whisky … or a glass of vintage wine if you prefer …”

Father Ignatius preferred to continue with the pot of tea, whilst Theodore helped himself to some wine.

“Well …” he hesitated, “I’d like your opinion on certain delicate matters … you being such a knowledgeable individual and all that …”

The priest smiled feebly.

“It’s about my dear wife …” he hesitated again, “I really miss her … do you think she’s in Heaven?”

“I would say so …” replied the priest hesitating in turn and wondering where this was leading to, “she was a good person, and I was there in hospital administering the last Sacraments when she died … so I would say the angels were with her that night …”

“Jolly good … jolly good …” repeated Theodore as he sipped a little wine, “I really miss her … as I said … terrible thing her dying so quickly after such a short illness …”

“I understand …” repeated the priest still confused about this conversation.

“How long is it decent to mourn for someone’s death … do you think?” asked Theodore abruptly.

“Well …” Father Ignatius was taken aback by the question, “there’s no set period of decency as such … different people deal with death in their own way and in their own time. Matilda died six years ago if I remember right …”

“You remember too damn right …” interrupted Theodore, “pardon my language Father … and not a day passes by without me thinking about her and hoping she’d be with me here …”

The priest said nothing and put his cup down on the table.

“Is it right for an old man like me to be in love?” he asked, “I am 60 you know …”

“There is no set age to be in love …” continued the priest gently as he was interrupted once again.

“The thing is … I love my wife … I love her dearly believe me … But …” he hesitated once again, and the priest said nothing, now totally baffled at what was going on here.

“Ok … let’s get to the point …” Theodore blurted out putting down his glass of wine, “the thing is I have needed an accountant for the last six months or so. I don’t have a head for figures and all that … it is all Greek to me … yet the tax people want the accounts properly audited and all that … sheer nonsense I say … so I spoke to my solicitors … you probably know them … Sterling Cash and Banks in the High Street …”

The priest nodded silently, now totally overcome with confusion at what Theodore was leading to.

“Anyway …” said Theodore, “the solicitors put me in touch with this accountant … Geraldine Leamington … a lovely young lady of thirty odd years … she’s very competent you know … if ever you want an accountant to do the Sunday collection for you …

“Anyway … as I said … Geraldine has been coming here for at least six months now … she’s like a magician you know … she went through those figures like a hot knife through butter … she checked the books for the past six years … I’d made a right mess of them apparently … all Greek to me as I say …

“Ha ha …” he laughed heartily pouring himself another glass of wine, “turns out I’d made such a pig’s ear of the accounts that the tax man apparently owes me money … I’ve been overpaying for years … she managed to claim back a tidy sum I tell you … I received the check from the tax man last week …

“You don’t need her to count the Sunday collection do you?”

“No thanks …” mumbled Father Ignatius politely.

“Back to business …” continued Theodore, “the thing is … she’s been coming here for six months or so and we got to know each other and her family … and, not to put too fine a point on it, I’ve fallen in love again and wish to get married … is that all right do you think?”

“You wish to marry the young lady?” asked the priest cautiously.

“Of course not …” said Theodore getting a little red in the face, “what do you think I am? She is half my age you know … wouldn’t have the energy old boy …

“No … you’re way off beam Padre … I wish to marry her mother. She’s a widow … about my age … fifty-nine actually … but don’t tell her I told you. Women you know … they never reveal their age apparently …

“I’ve been meeting Geraldine’s mother in secret for a while … we meet in the Grand Hotel for tea … do you know it … in the High Street.

“We get on rather well … but I’m not so sure about love at my age … is it possible? And is it OK to marry again? Will my dear wife understand?”

Father Ignatius asked for a drop of vintage whisky to calm his nerves a little.

The wedding is scheduled in four months time at St Vincent Church with Father Ignatius officiating.

Theodore has still to decide on what music will be played in church on that day. Father Ignatius suggested that he leaves all decisions to his bride to be … at least then matters would be organized in time!

You can download the book "Theodore Luxton Joyce - Lovable Eccentric" FREE - yes FREE from HERE 

Read more about Theodore's wedding HERE

Monday, 22 June 2015

This Man



Imagine you’re a person of authority in a Court of Law.

The judge, the final arbiter, whatever you say happens.

And they bring to you a man. He is fairly ordinary looking and they accuse Him of saying He is the Son of God. And this is blasphemy according to the Law and He should be put to death.

Before you make such a momentous decision on the man’s life, you decide to do some investigations.

You check and you find that this man has been around for about three years or so. He has been travelling up and down the land, and He has indeed said several times that He is the Son of God. He preaches to people and He tells them to repent from their sins and to follow the Way of the Lord.

So you wonder about this and you think “Well, maybe if I can prove that this man is mad, I could let Him off. I could tell the people that He is insane, and they should let Him go, and I could warn Him not to repeat what He says because it would get Him into deep trouble”.

So you check on the man’s sanity and you find that indeed He is not mad at all. Many people can testify to the fact that he has preached in the temples, and He has debated with religious elders, and shows no sign of being mentally insane whatsoever. Indeed, He is very wise.

And you also find that this man seems to have some supernatural powers because He has healed many people up and down the country. The blind can see, the deaf can hear, the dumb can talk and the lame can walk. And there’s plenty of evidence for what He has done. There’s even a Roman Officer who can testify that He has healed. What better evidence do you want?

And also, you understand, that apparently He has raised people from the dead. Now that’s very strange. No one has ever done that before. But again there’s plenty of evidence of that. There’s the family of a man called Lazarus who apparently had died and had been entombed for a few days yet Jesus raised him from the dead and raised other people from the dead.

And when He preaches He says to people “Your Faith has saved you” whatever that means. And He heals them.

He doesn’t charge at all for what He is doing. He just wants people to repent and follow the Lord.

So you wonder whether He’s some sort of trickster, some sort of charlatan. So you order your soldiers to beat Him up and to rough Him a bit to see whether He admits to being a liar, a cheat.

Your soldiers torture Him, beat Him up, they put a crown of thorns on His head because He claims to being a King of some sort. But after all that the man still does not say anything in His defence.

So you give up. You think, “Well, He is one of their people. He is not one of us. So what’s it to do with me if they want to kill Him.”

So you give orders for Him to be put to death.

Your soldiers put a Cross on His back and ask Him to carry it all the way to the place where He is nailed to that Cross and left there to die.

And just before He dies He asks God in Heaven, to forgive these people, because they don’t know what they are doing.

What’s more strange is that three days later this very man is Himself raised from the dead.  And a lot of people see Him and can testify to his Resurrection.

Now I wonder. Is this enough evidence that this man is really the Son of God?

Because it is for me.

Sunday, 21 June 2015

Mademoiselle Veronique Tombal

We had a visitor from France at work this week. A top executive named Mademoiselle Veronique Tombal came over to negotiate a big contract with our Company. We were all on our best behaviour hoping to impress her about the quality and cost of our products.

It wasn’t until our meeting was over when my boss made an announcement without having cleared it with me first.

“I hope you’ll enjoy your stay overnight at the hotel we’ve booked for you Mademoiselle Tombal,” he said with a smile, “Victor will meet you at seven this evening for dinner, and then he’ll take you to the theatre to see a performance of our beloved William Shakespeare!”

“What?” I thought to myself silently, “I have other plans for this evening …”

Mademoiselle Tombal said she looked forwards to a pleasant evening and left with one of our executives to be chauffeur driven to the luxurious hotel we had booked for her.

My boss apologized profusely as honestly as he could possibly lie and explained that he had planned to take her out himself but because of urgent family business he’d be for ever grateful if I did it instead.

“And you speak French so well,” he said flattering me, “she’ll be so impressed by it!”

I didn’t believe him but had no option but to accept his unwelcome decision.

I made sure I was impeccably dressed and my shoes very well polished when I picked her up at the hotel and took her to a first class restaurant. We made polite conversation about this and that and I prayed that this evening would soon be over.

After our meal we were chauffeur driven to the theatre for a performance of Hamlet by some of our top British actors.

My boss, who certainly has style, had booked us balcony seats all to ourselves. There we were, Veronique and I in our own balcony, when two men came in pushing a trolley with a bottle of champagne in an ice bucket, two glasses, and a large box of the best chocolate truffles you could imagine.

“My boss is certainly keen to win this contract …” I thought to myself, “he hasn’t missed a trick so far … luxurious hotel, chauffeur driven car, grand restaurant, a balcony at the theatre and now this … I’d better be on my best behaviour … I wouldn’t want to be the reason why this contract is lost!”

Before the performance started I tried to make small conversation about Shakespeare and Hamlet in particular, trying hard to remember what I’d been taught at school all those years ago. But it soon became apparent that Veronique was very well educated in English literature having spent some years at a top British University in her youth.

“Something else which my boss had omitted to tell me …” I thought to myself cursing him in the process.

Thankfully, the performance started giving me the opportunity to remain silent and praying that the evening would soon be over without me making any more silly mistakes. Once this play is finished, I’d accompany her to the hotel and hey presto … I’m free to go home to my family!

As the play progressed I noticed she held a handkerchief to her eyes several times.

“Was she getting emotional?” I thought, “Hamlet is not exactly a comedy, but I saw no reason for tears … Maybe she remembers her time at University in England … an old friend perhaps had come to mind … some handsome young man she once loved maybe … and now she wonders what could have been …”

I didn’t know what to do. I looked ahead pretending not to notice her and every so often I looked sideways at her without moving my head. I think she was crying all right. She kept raising her handkerchief to her eyes every now and then.

If I said nothing she’d think I was an un-caring so and so … and if that’s the way I deal with a person who is clearly upset then our Company certainly doesn’t deserve this big contract. And if we were to lose the contract my boss would blame me and most possibly fire me for ruining it all for him.

On the other hand, if I tried to console her and say something she’d probably resent it and be embarrassed by the whole affair and blame me for making it obvious that she’s distressed. And we’d lose the contract and my boss would fire me anyway.

Perhaps if I offered her another chocolate truffle? No … that might remind her of her boy-friend who used to take her to the theatre and buy her chocolates and …

My mind was doing somersaults and I did not know what to do for the best.

Maybe I should pretend to cry too, wipe my eyes every now and then … that would show her that I am a sensitive man well moved by this magnificent performance of Hamlet. But then, people expect business men to be tough … and we’d lose the contract and …

On the other hand, she might think that it’s nice for a man to show his feelings … in touch with one’s feminine side and all that …

To cry or not to cry? That is the question which repeated in my mind.

It was then that she said, “Would you assist me please? I seem to have lost one of my contact lenses. It just fell to the ground.

“I have another pair in my handbag. They are in a little tube. Would you mind getting them for me please?” And she handed me her handbag.

I placed her bag gingerly on my knees and put my hand in to try and find a little plastic tube containing her spare contact lenses.

Why do women have to carry the whole world and his uncle inside their bags? Why do they need all this stuff?

The first thing I picked out was a tube of lipstick … I put it back in. Then a small bottle with some cleaning fluid for lenses, a tube of cool mints sweets, a small box with needles and thread, a packet of French cigarettes … and several other items too … !!!

“The container is in a side pocket on the left” she said.

I looked left and right and left again but it was far too dark to see anything in her handbag. I pushed my head almost right into the handbag resting on my knees but I could not find her contact lenses.

Then I found a cigarette lighter and I thought “Aha … let there be light!”

I lit the lighter … held it in my hand and carefully put it in the handbag … I put my face right into the handbag and peered down in the darkness therein to see if I could find the contact lenses.

And that’s when it happened.

As the man on the stage was saying loudly “To be or not to be” I set my hair on fire.

I dropped the handbag and its contents on the floor … tried frantically to put the fire out without drawing the attention of the whole audience to a separate comedic performance in our balcony … whilst Mademoiselle Veronique emptied the bottle of champagne on my head, followed by the bucket of ice, and then proceeded to hit me several times with her theatre program to ensure the fire in my hair was well and truly out!

I was soaking wet with champagne and freezing water and quite a few of my curls had perished in the forest fire which took place on my cranium.

Eventually the fire was out and we found her spare contact lenses.

She thought the whole performance was hilarious … and I don’t mean Hamlet!

We did win the contract but I had great difficulty explaining my singed hair to my wife and family … and my boss is pleased that I’d go to any lengths to gain a contract for him.

Friday, 19 June 2015

Treasures

Amazing the things we gather and collect over the years. Take the music and video field for instance. How many DVDs and music CDs do we have at home? Have we listened to all of them more than once? How many times can we see the same DVD feature movie; or the Series of that famous TV show we like?

Time was when all these movies were on VHS tapes; and our music collection was either cassette tapes or old vinyl. Then the system changed; and we had to change too.

Now it’s DVDs and CDs soon to be replaced by Blu-Ray, MP3s and a variety of other formats no doubt.

And there’s also all those photos we took with our modern cameras. In the old days it was a film which had to be developed and printed on paper. It cost money – so we were careful how many photos we took. Now it’s digital and we can click away to our heart’s content and put all these photos on CDs and build a large collection which we see once and then forget about it.

I wonder, will there be time in Heaven to sit back and see all those DVD movies we never have time to watch? Or our favourite TV shows which ran for several Series? Or all those photos we took of all the holidays and events we went to? And listen to all our music collections we amassed over the years?

And will they have a machine in Heaven which runs all formats regardless whether your memories are saved on Betamax, VHS or the latest digital system?

And how about our lovely shoe collection? One pair for each occasion? Or our lovely handbags … dresses … hats … ties … sets of golf clubs … watches … and numerous other things we buy and collect over a lifetime?

“Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moth and rust destroy, and where thieves break in and steal. But store up for yourselves treasures in Heaven, where moth and rust do not destroy, and where thieves do not break in and steal. For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also." Matthew 6: 19-21.

Wednesday, 17 June 2015

It's all about birds

"No, it's not you. It's me. That's the way I am. It's just not my scene."

Not far from where we live, about two hours' drive or so, there is a bird sanctuary. A place designated where birds can live in peace undisturbed and that's the way I like it. However, I was persuaded against my better nature that it would make a nice day out.

"It'll be fun ... They have many birds there we can watch with binoculars. And there are some in cages. Come on ... Drive us there!"

"What? Drive for two hours just to see some birds? The only birds I like to see are the frozen ones in the supermarket!"

Well, it was just as I predicted. A huge area of countryside and semi-forest where we had to walk, and walk, and walk, and every so often stop and listen to different sounds in the trees and try to identify which bird it is. Or search the various branches with binoculars to discover where they were hiding or nesting.

To be honest, I can't tell the difference between a sparrow and an eagle and could not care less. As long as they live in this nature reserve and I live in mine that's all that matters. How would we like it if these birds came to visit our towns and cities to gawp at us getting on with our business? Remember that film by Hitchcock? Even his name was invaded by a bird!

This sanctuary also had an area where a number of birds were kept safe in large cages whilst others were perched on perches and tied by chains to stop their escape. Hundreds and hundreds they were, or so it seemed, all kept together according to species.
"Yes ... I have seen all the owls! They are all the same to me. I realise they are all different sizes and have different coloured plumage; but does it really matter? They are owls and do what owls do. They sit there on their perch looking at you passing by.

"Yes ... yes ... I have also seen all the hawks. They too all look the same apart from size and a small variation in the colour of their plumage. And very excited I was identifying where they originate from; although I noticed none are destined for our oven!

"And I did notice that their beaks, being birds of prey, (or is it pray?), are different looking from a sparrow's beak or that of a pelican."

[NOTE: Yes - there were even pelicans and ostriches there, and penguins too!] 

"Why can't we go to the restaurant for a rest and something to eat? Do they have a KFC here?"

Instead, I was frogmarched to the souvenir shop. Well, at least I didn't waddle like a duck or hop like a sparrow or blackbird!

You've guessed it. The souvenir shop was full of ... souvenirs of birds. There were pictures of birds, and posters of birds, and jigsaw puzzles of birds, and key rings, and statues, and postcards, and pencils and pens and a million other things I never imagined existed in the same sentence as birds. I mean ... whoever wants a toilet roll holder with a picture of a swan on it? Whose idea was it to juxtapose the two together? What is the missing link which I am missing here?

"And no ... we do not want that lovely poster of an owl. What will we do with it? Hang it in the bedroom? I would have nightmares if I had those round eyes staring at me as I fell asleep. He looks as if he is ready to attack his prey ... namely me!!!"

Anyway, that was our day at the nature reserve which is only about two hours' drive from where we live and not far enough as far as I am concerned.

We returned home with a car load of souvenirs ... and they did not have a KFC there either!

Saturday, 13 June 2015

Animals in Heaven


A few friends were discussing religion and the conversation turned to whether animals go to Heaven.

Some thought this unlikely since animals have no souls; others believed they’ll meet their pets in Heaven.

This set me thinking.

Which animals in particular would go to Heaven? The good ones? Whilst the bad ones are destined for hell.

Are there bad animals? Do they think, plot and plan like humans, or are they slaves to their own instincts? Can they possibly sin?

Would all animals go to Heaven? Including the cows, pigs, sheep and chickens we kill to eat?

I would hate to come face to face with my Sunday roast admonishing me for what I have done.

What about the mosquito I killed in the garden this morning? Will it haunt me for eternity?

And all those fishes caught by Peter and the disciples when asked to cast their nets in the lake by Jesus. Will they be there too?

The point I’m trying to make here is that religion relies on Faith. When Christians engage in debate such as this not only do they risk confusing themselves, but they also risk confusing those who are new in their walk with the Lord.

I really don’t know whether my beloved Max will greet me in Heaven wagging his tail. In the meantime, I try to steer clear from such hypothetical discussions.

Wednesday, 10 June 2015

VISIONS

Please spend a couple of minutes watching this video.


Monday, 8 June 2015

I'm really HOT !!!


A friend of mine is quite an inventor. He is always in his little hut at the bottom of the garden making different gadgets and things “to make life better”. Or so he claims. I must admit that some of his inventions are somewhat innovative although I can’t see them catching on and becoming best sellers. For example he has put a little red LED light at the back of his cap which lights up when he goes out walking at night so that vehicles can see him. Practical? Yes … Fashionable … I don’t think so!

The other day he asked me to test his latest invention.

He has somehow managed to weave a very thin wire backwards and forwards inside the lining of a jacket which he bought from a shop. He then connected the wires to a battery the size of a small book which he placed in the inside pocket of the jacket. By flicking a switch the wires warm up gently and keep you warm on cold winter days.

Now I’m sure that I read about similar devices somewhere or other; but my friend assures me that his system is different … I couldn’t understand a word of what he said in techno language, so I nodded politely and smiled.

He took my nodding as acquiescence to testing the “Warma-Coat”; as he calls it.

I put the jacket on one cold and breezy morning and walked to the local shops to buy my newspapers and some chocolates. I just can’t read the papers without chocolates. Somehow they make me concentrate better. But I digress.

On my way to the shops the electric system in my jacket must have short-circuited because I got a slight twinge in my right shoulder which made me wince a little.

I ignored it and carried on walking when it happened again, only a little stronger.

Fortunately, it stopped for a while whilst I was shopping, but when I came to the check-out to pay for my goods … it happened again but much stronger this time. I recoiled a little and grimaced somewhat at the electric shock.

“Are you winking at me?” asked the beautiful young female cashier.

“No … I’m not.” I replied embarrassingly as I winked at her once more.

“There … you did it again” she said, “what’s the matter with you?”

I was about to reply when a further electric shock made me smile involuntarily and wink at her twice.

“You’re being suggestive … you are!” she cried in a loud voice, “I’ll call the manager!”

Seconds later the manager appeared out of nowhere with a security man. She must have pressed some hidden panic button, I suppose.

“What’s the matter?” he asked her.

“Mr Thornicroft … this customer is making suggestive innuendos by winking at me!” she complained.

“Is this true sir?” he asked, “we take exception to improper behavior by our customers towards our employees!”

“I assure you that I did not do or imply anything improper” I replied as I winked at him twice.

“Sir … you are quite out of order” he said sternly as he saw me wink, “I’ll have to ask you to leave these premises or we will call the police!”
As I tried to explain my innocence he noticed a plume of smoke rising from my right shoulder.

“Sir … have you been smoking? It is a criminal offence to smoke in public places and I may have to detain you until the police arrives” interrupted Mr Thornicroft as he motioned to the security guard to do his business.

A crowd soon gathered by the check-out as other shoppers became interested in my dilemma. Why can’t people just mind their own business and continue shopping?

“I assure you I don’t smoke …” I protested as the security guard attempted to put his hand on my right shoulder then thought it better not to.

“I don’t smoke … but my shoulder clearly does!” I said trying to make light of the situation.

And that’s exactly what happened next. The right shoulder did light up in green flames and acrid black smoke.

The manager quickly picked up a two-liter bottle of beer and emptied it on my head whilst the security guard got hold of a foam emitting fire extinguisher and covered me in foam from head to toe.

I can announce that beer and foam don’t mix. Some got into my mouth with dire results.

As I was led out of the store coughing and spluttering I heard a customer explain to another “Instant combustion … it happens a lot you know. It’s more common than you think!”

I cleaned the foam as best I could and walked back home never to return to that shop again … and never to trust an inventive friend.

Friday, 5 June 2015

Happiness

Sometimes our skies are dark and the clouds are gathering.
We may fear what is to happen ...

I hope the lyrics to this song will bring you comfort ...


Tuesday, 2 June 2015

Another parrot story. Another parrot story.


The letter got miss-delivered by the postman. It clearly says on the envelope Number 1245 and we definitely are not Number 1245. I decide to walk up the street and deliver the letter to its rightful owner.

The old lady saw me approaching her house and opened the door.

“Oh, thank you” she said, “come in for a cup of tea!”

“I was just delivering …” I mumbled.

“Oh do come in …” she interrupted, “I often see you walking the dog to the park and back again. I’ve just put the kettle on …”

I looked at my watch and thought, she’s probably lonely, and just a few minutes won’t hurt!

I entered the living room and immediately noticed a large parrot standing on a perch in the corner, and two budgerigars on top of their open cage near the window. An old dog at least one hundred years old sat by the fire and a cat slept on the settee.

The old lady beckoned me to an armchair and went out to make some tea. 

As soon as she left, the large blue parrot moved his head left and right, as they do; looked at me and screeched “STUPID!”
I jumped out of the seat, not expecting him to talk.

He repeated again “STUPID … STUPID …” over and over every minute or so.

The old lady came in with a tray of tea and biscuits and cakes.

“Ah … Polly is being friendly” she said, “he often hears me talking to the dog and repeats what I say.”

At that point the parrot screeched “STUPID HAT … STUPID HAT …”

Let me tell you there is nothing stupid about my cowboy hat with a feather. It’s sartorial elegance in the extreme as I’ve been told by the man in the pub who sold it to me!

“I wonder what he means?” said the old lady trying to cover her faux pas. No doubt she’d seen me wearing the hat on my way to the park and had voiced her un-called for opinions to her pets.

She offered me a piece of cake. As soon as I held a small plate in one hand, and a tea cup in another, the geriatric dog got up ever so slowly from his mat, came towards me and started sniffing my groin.

What is it with dogs and sniffing people inappropriately? I’ll add, in case you’re wondering, that I had just had a shower that morning and had splashed Old Spice after-shave all over, even though I have a beard and don’t shave. So there was no need to sniff there or anywhere else.

“Oh … he’s being friendly” repeated the old lady, making no attempt whatsoever to take the dog away, “It’s his way of greeting you!”

Well … I’d rather not be greeted that way, thank you very much.

I mean … just imagine … what if we humans greeted each other that way? We meet someone for the first time, and instead of shaking hands, we start sniffing to our heart’s delight.

OK … better change the subject.

I pushed the dog away … gently … yes … gently; although I must admit that was not what was on my mind when he started sniffing his welcome.

As soon as the dog went back on his mat the cat woke up from the settee and jumped on the arm of my armchair; and then started licking my hand.

I moved away slowly whilst the old lady, totally unaware of my discomfort, continued prattling on about her family and her children all grown up and living abroad. No doubt to escape from her lunatic menagerie.

The cat, still sitting next to me, having been denied the taste of my hand proceeded to lick himself in the most private of places.

Yet again … this is another annoying habit of the feline as well as canine species which, fortunately, we humans do not copy. The mind boggles at the contortions we’d have to make if we were … OK … you get the point; let’s move on.

I moved surreptitiously towards the cat and nudged him gently. He dropped to the floor and walked out the room.

I listened to the old lady going on about her lonely life with no one to visit her; and how she often just goes out on the bus so that she can meet people, or stands at the window looking at people pass by and imagine what kind of life they lead. She said she plays a mind-game when she sees people. She looks carefully at what they wear and then guesses the sort of work they do. She also likes to name people in her head according to how they dress, the way they walk, and their general demeanour.

She said she’d been watching me take the dog for a walk for a very long time. “Do you realise” she said, “that whenever you stop by that tree to allow the dog to sniff at its roots, you always scratch the back of your head? Why do you do that?”

I’ll admit I never noticed that habit. And from being told, I’m sure I’ll resist that particular temptation in future. I’ll do all my scratching that’s needed before I leave home from now on.

She was about to tell me what nickname she had invented for me when suddenly there was a flutter of wings.

The parrot left its perch and made himself comfortable on my shoulder. I did not dare move an inch. Those creatures can be dangerous you know. Once they get hold of your nose in their beaks they will not let go.

“Oh … Polly likes you too!” said the old lady joyfully, “it must be your gentle and kind personality. Animals know when someone loves them. Do you like birds?” she asked.

I hesitated to tell her that the only birds I like are Kentucky Fried Chickens; although right now I would not mind tasting Kentucky Fried Parrot as well.

She didn’t wait for an answer and continued talking ignoring her feathered friend on my shoulder.

The wretched bird, still sitting by my left ear, eyed the big feather in my hat for a few moments, and then, to my horror, jumped at it and attempted to mate with it. I held the hat tightly on my head with my right hand for fear that it might be dislodged and end up matrimonially united with a myopic parrot.

I mean … how short-sighted can he get? It’s only a feather for crying out loud. Who’s STUPID now? Can’t tell the difference between a beautiful lady parrot and a feather in a cowboy hat!

The old lady laughed, not understanding the situation, and said that he was welcoming me into his domain. Whatever that means!

I had absolutely no wish to be welcomed anywhere belonging to that stupid creature, and my hat and feather certainly shared this opinion.

The parrot struggled vainly with his amorous advances at my hat and started to flutter his wings wildly and squawking loudly, no doubt upset at being snubbed by his new-found lady friend.  

Eventually the old lady realised that I was somewhat uneasy, to put it mildly. She got up slowly from her chair and removed the parrot from its clutches on my hat and replaced him back on his perch.

She then turned to me and asked whether I’d like to meet the budgerigars still sitting on their cage preening themselves.

I made an excuse about having a meeting somewhere or other and left hurriedly.

And that’s another cowboy hat with a feather totally ruined!

Monday, 1 June 2015

Les Parrots

An eccentric friend of mine went to a high class pet shop and bought two parrots which he displayed proudly in the grounds of his house out in the country. He was told that one of the parrots was a fluent talker, whilst the other was rather shy and had never said a word; albeit he showed promise and needed a little care and attention.

Once he had the pair home he approached their enclosure and started repeating inane words like "Pretty Polly ... who's a pretty boy ..." and so on, in the hope that the parrots would repeat what he said; which is what parrots are supposed to do.

To his surprise, the talkative parrot replied in French "Vous êtes un imbécile, monsieur!"

My friend was totally surprised, not so much at the insult, but at the fact that the parrot addressed him in French. Parrots are supposed to speak in English aren't they?

Before my friend could utter another word, and plenty came readily to mind, believe me, the French parrot started reciting Victor Hugo's "Les Miserables".

On and on he continued reciting from Victor Hugo, Molliere, Racine, Camus and others, so well read in French literature that parrot was. My friend was totally mesmerised at this even though he could not understand a word the parrot was saying.

He tried to get the other parrot to speak, but to no avail. The silent one remained ever so.

The problem was that my friend could not tell apart which parrot was which, they were so identical. So he could not proudly tell his friends he has a French talking parrot if, as sometimes happened, neither would oblige. So he rang the pet shop for advice.

The pet shop owner said that the French speaking parrot was the male, and he was very amourous. All that my friend had to do is creep on the pair late at night and when he spied the French parrot saying to the other one "Je t'aime mon amour!", all he had to do is to put a collar on him to distinguish him as the talking male.

This my friend did quite successfully and he collared the male parrot as advised.

A few days later my friend had a few visitors to come and see the parrots, and amongst them was the local Parish priest. As the group approached the birds' cage the male parrot said to the priest in a French accent "Alors, mon ami. I see zey caught you at it too!"

To which the other parrot said in a Spanish accent "Hola señor!"
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