BEANS MEANZ NO SANDWICHES

Ever walked up or climbed a mountain?

Say like Scafell Pike in the English Lake District. There is nothing better I imagine than using the protection of a suitable cairn or trig point, opening up the sandwich boxes and the thermos and having a relaxing bite to eat before heading back down to valley floor and the car home.

I imagine there’s nothing better anyway because I’ve never had the experience. Let me explain.

My Dad was a skilled and committed climber back in the day. He had trekked and climbed in Scotland, Wales, The Peak District as well as Norway and the Alps but he always came back to his beloved Lake District.

My Dad (On right)

My Dad (On right)

He knows every inch of it, and was so compelled to have his regular fix of it that when my brothers were small often on a Sunday he would wake me up at the crack of dawn and we would kit ourselves up, get in the car and go to The Lakes for a fell walk. Or a quick couple of routes if it was climbing weather. My Dad would make sure we always had the right gear: Sturdy boots, waterproofs , ropes, compass , map, whistle. We went prepared for anything. Except eating. He was so eager to get onto the fells that on the way out he would just grab anything that he thought might sustain us by way of provisions. Food was a very low priority. Besides my Dad was notorious for going the whole day with just 20 Embassy to fortify him.

I remember one occasion stopping for lunch on the summit of I forget where, for my Dad to open his rucksack and produce a tin of pilchards in tomato sauce! Pilchards! Ugh! We ate them out of the tin with our hands.

Pilchards!

Pilchards!

But the best example of this cavalier attitude to food was on Crinkle Crags. And thereby hangs a tale of survival and derring-do.

We’d headed for some snow, hopefully to try out some new skis. But instead found ourselves on the top of Crinkle Crags in white-out conditions. Snow being blown horizontally. You could barely see your hand in front of your face. It was so cold and windy, ice was crystalizing on the front of my jacket. We found a bit of protection in the lee of an outcrop of rock. My Dad had a primus stove and two eggs he planned to boil. Fat chance of that!  It was simply too windy to light the bloody thing.

Crinkle Crags

Crinkle Crags

‘Don’t worry’ says my Dad, pulling out a tin of beans. He went about opening the tin with a tiny ‘wiggle and cut’ opener and passed the can to me ‘At least they are already cooked’ So we shared the tin ‘drinking’ the beans while trying not to cut our lips on the shredded metal. Suitably ‘refreshed’, we considered our position. My Dad took the view – which I shared – that we were in danger of outstaying our welcome and that we ought to call it a day, even though we were only half way through the walk.

White out condtions on Crinkle Crags

White out condtions on Crinkle Crags

The trouble was the lack of visibility. We were on the traverse of the crags, but which gully to descend by? Get it wrong and it was goodnight Vienna. We consulted the map again and made our choice. I wasn’t scared in the least. I never was when I was out with my Dad.The snow was about knee deep in the gully. The most dangerous thing was avoiding lose rocks and boulders hidden by the snow. After about 20 minutes we broke through the cloud and saw we were spot on with our direction finding – exactly were we should have been – It was still snowing, but much less windy now we were off the tops. In fact we skied the final third of the descent. Not exactly Kitzbuhel but there you go. And home in time for tea and crumpets.

My Dad

My Dad

NB. Scafell is pronounced ‘scorefell.’

Andy Daly 2016

 

Parkinson’s Awareness Week

As regular readers will know I make a point of making posts to this blog Parkinson’s-free. But, as it is Parkinson’s awareness week may I present this to make you even  more aware.

The boy who fogot how to smile

Now if anybody tells you that these days, Parkinson’s is not so terrible and that it can be easily managed with drugs, you can say nothing, just punch them as hard as you like on the Philtrum (It is the vertical groove or ‘channel’ we all have which runs from the nose to the top lip) There are lots of nerve endings here which make it extremely painful when bopped.

With any luck, fragments of bone will be shattered away and lodge themselves in the Know It All’s brain too.

“Well, it seems your GP was correct, you have Parkinson’s Disease” I remember distinctly the tall beech trees that I could see behind Consultant Neurologist Richard Crawford, through his window. I was transfixed by them as they swayed in the stiff breeze. His words seemed to echo around the room, while briefly, still captivated by the trees I left my body and looked down on the scene in the room from somewhere above the window but which still allowed me a view of the trees as well. The gentle squeeze of my left hand brought me back down to earth, and back to my body. Crawford leaned back in his chair and began to chew on his spectacles. He had taken off his jacket earlier when he got me to do the gait tests (to my humiliation, out in the corridor in front of a packed clinic waiting room) and sat there in blue striped shirt and tie with red braces. He began to speak. His eyelids closed and fluttered as he did so. There was the tiniest hint of a stammer in his voice.

God knows why, but I imagined him as a schoolboy. Public school of course: taunted, teased and bullied because of his blessed stammer and, I suspected, a complete lack of co-ordination and interest when it came to sport. I found myself feeling sorry for him. Strange, really in the light of the news he had just given me. I had first seen him a little under a year before, with the same symptoms. Stress and Writer’s Cramp he concluded. I think he knew then, his diagnosis possibly intended to ‘buy’ me a few more worry-free months, maybe more. In the event, it did the exact opposite: the intervening year being one blighted by increasing concerns as to whether there was something wrong with me or whether it was all imagined. By rights, I should be on his desk now slamming his head in the drawer.

Well things have moved on apace since that meeting in Crawford’s consulting room, it is sixteen years later and I am still battling away with my devious and wily opponent. In the meantime I have tried all manner of drug cocktails in order to keep him at bay: Pergolide, Pramipexole, Neupro, Apomorphine, Entacapone, Stalevo, Amantadine, and of course L-Dopa. Each one comes with its own particular set of unwanted and frightening side effects – Nausea, movement disorders , Obsessive/Compulsive Disorders, Impulse Control problems, Addictions, Hallucinations, Psychosis, the On/Off Phenomenon, characteristic of long term use of Leva Dopa, of course, the alarming and exhausting diskynesias.

So Parkinson’s is much more than a tremor or slowness of movement, motor deficiency. As the condition progresses the non-motor issues become more difficult to deal with and their management becomes more complex. Luckily I was thrown a lifeline in the shape of Deep Brain Stimulation which I had done in 2011. If it weren’t for this I would be in a very dark place indeed. I went into it knowing that possible side effects were impairment of speech and Depression and in the event both have been problematic. My gait is also a bit clumsy but DBS has meant that I have remained on the same drug regimen for the last four and a half years plus it has given me back a measure of independence. There is no doubt that it works, but my perception is, whether the DBS, the drugs, the underlying condition or external factors (probably a combination of all four) that my personality has changed.

Scan of my brain. Dead centre there are two circular shapes, to the left and right are two semi-circular shaped which look like spanner ends. This is where the DBS electrodes are located.

Scan of my brain. Dead centre there are two circular shapes, to the left and right are two semi-circular shaped which look like spanner ends. This is where the DBS electrodes are located.

Lack of self confidence and self esteem are key issues. Although I have been retired now for 6 years or so I still haven’t found my ‘niche’ in a post employment world; while many things I once took for granted are now only on the edge of memory – walking without having to think about it, driving, Having a good criac in the pub with friends, teaching a class of children, my Taekwondo patterns, replacing worn brake pads on the car, the ability to write by hand, to enjoy music, to play the guitar.

And who has front row seats to my humiliations and inexorable decline? The people I love most and whose approvaI I seek more than anything: my family

Sometimes I feel like I am in a ‘bubble’ and ‘real life’ is taking place around me. I don’t speak or engage because it is too tiring to manipulate my mouth to get anything intelligeble out, other times it is simply because I don’t feel I have anything to contribute.

And the ‘Smile’? This is a reference to what is known as ‘The Parkinson’s Mask ‘ Where the muscles of the face lock, leaving me with a ‘blank expression’ which in turn makes smiling difficult. So I am not gumpy or cheesed off, I am just at the mercy of the level of Dopamine in my brain, So I’ll pass when it comes to the ‘Selfies’ I f you don’t mind.

Andy Daly 2016

 

 

Chawkey does the ironing

Not suitable for vegetarians and those of a nervous disposition.

As a rule I try not to laugh at other peoples’ misfortunes, but the day Chawkey ironed his stomach, I very nearly wet myself.

Chawkey and me go back a long way. In fact, we go right back to the beginning; which if you know your ‘Sitting Comfortably’ posts mean The Softest Cushions’ and Wiz and the D’Oyly Carte’. We all lived (that’s Chawkey, Wiz, Marión and me,) in Betjeman’s leafy green ‘Metroland’ of Ruislip, where for a peppercorn rent, we were entrusted with a grand detached house in a state of elegant decline.

I have described the house elsewhere, so I’m not going to repeat myself, save to say it was as enigmatic as it was formerly elegant. From the beautiful wooden floors to the car engines and gearboxes buried in its grounds. (We used one unearthed, a mini, as the stand for a low ‘drinks’ table in the back garden) From the wheezy, bronchial gas fires to the monumental iconic 1950s American fridge which stood like some armoured sentinel, guarding the kitchen door. From the breezes blowing through net curtains and birdsong on a warm sunny sunday morning, to the big back garden bonfire, guests in fancy dress and complaints to the police about our behaviour.

It was a great house to live in, and one full of many happy memories. It still stands, though of course modernised, now. I wouldn’t step into it for all the tea in China.

Well, the day Chawkey ironed his stomach started much like any other. Nothing untoward, no portents of things to come. It was so unremarkable that I have no recollection of the day’s events, except that it was a saturday. It was warm. I do remember that, because not long before contact between hot steel and prime British beef, Chawkey, barechested due to the heat, announced he was going to do some ironing and left the front room, where we lolled over furniture and floor, watching the TV and looking like we’d all been dropped out of an aeroplane.

Chawkey was fastidious about the care of his clothes, and in particular, his ironing. Unlike me, I am ashamed to say. It took me the same time, more or less to learn how to use an iron as it took Jesus of Nazareth to tell all his parables, cure the sick and lame, learn a bit of carpentry, turn everyone out of the temple, (including the Scribes and Pharisees) perform some general-purpose miracles with wine, fish and bread, be tempted for forty days and forty nights, commission the disciples and apostles, give a sermon on the Mount, find himself arrested, fitted up, executed, then three days later come back to life for a while, and squeeze in a Last Supper.

So there we are, saturday evening watching some old crap on the TV, Probably ‘Blind Date’. We are just considering whether Lee of Dagenham has made an error of judgement in choosing Annelise from County Durham.

There is a strangled yelp from next door. We look at each other nonplussed, then straight back at the TV to hear what Kerrie from Lichfield is going to ask Malik, Aidan and Jed from Neasden, Portrush and Rochdale respectively.

The living room door is flung open. It’s Chawkey, in shorts and flip flops, iron (unplugged) in one hand and a bottle of Budweiser in the other.

‘You’ll never guess what I’ve just fucking gone and done …’ and before we can even attempt a reply. ‘ I’ve only just gone and fucking ironed my own stomach!’ .

We all leap across the room to see. Sure enough, there is a very neat V-shaped weal across Chawkey’s belly, light pink; but getting darker by the minute.

‘But how the fuck did you manage that?’

‘Well …’ and Chawkey goes onto explain that taking up a relaxed posture at the ironing board, meant that his belly (no shirt remember) – not big by any stretch of the imagination, slightly overhung the ironing board. It seems that Chawkey, gripped by what Annelise and Lee are going to get as their ‘date’ for next week, doesn’t realise there are 2lbs of ribs and some liver lying on the ironing board, and irons right over them. Thankfully we are spared the searing sound as he brands himself – possibly for life. The weal is standing proud now and a vibrant red in colour.

Ouch!

Treat this as a cautonary tale. Remember your posture and think carefully before you answer the telephone when ironing

The Poetry Archive

©Andy Daly 2016

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Look On The Bright Side, It’s Norman Whiteside!

It’s a Saturday morning and my mate Dinks is chuffed to bits, for despite his hangover he was up and out, early doors and into Stratford, found a DIY store and having measured up, bought the glass and putty needed to repair the toilet window at 35, Corbin House, Bow Bridge Estate London E3, his current place of residence.

For reasons which escape me, but which almost certainly involve large quantities of alcohol and possibly a hammer, the toilet window had been smashed. And, because like our flat at number 60, the bathroom is adjacent to the front door, it means a broken pane or panes of the frosted glass allow callers to the flat uninterrupted views of … Well, you see what I mean.

In order to protect the modesty of unsuspecting visitors (more so than the occupants, it has to be said, who couldn’t really have cared less) a photograph of Manchester United and Northern Ireland international Norman Whiteside of the appropiate size is placed strategically behind the broken glass. And it had been this way for months.

Norman Whiteside’s at the window

Until Dinks finally took it upon himself to repair it.

“Job’s a good ‘un” smiled a gratified Dinks, probably one of the world’s most unpractical people, as he stands back to admire his handiwork, rubbing the putty from his hands. “Fancy a pint?”

“But Dinks …” – I don’t know how to break it to him. – “The glass …”

“What about it?”

“Well it’s clear. It should be frosted … Did you ask for frosted glass, Dinks? … Dinks?”

“Fuck. Fucking Hell … Well, bollocks, I’m not doing it again.”

And so Norman Whiteside was returned to his rightful position.

And for all I know, he’s still there.

© Andy Daly 2016

 

The Water Margin

Well, the other day I get a knock on the door from Gill, Roger and Ray; buddies from my days in the old chalk and talk dodge.
It turns out that they are up for a day’s ‘twitching’ down at the Barnes Wetlands Centre. Now I am quite the Ornithologist when I am in short trousers and I pride myself with knowing my Widgeon from my Wagtails. So without further ado I join the intrepid threesome as we make our way over to Barnes.

London_Wetland

Now it’s the first time I come to here and I’m no expert but it seems to me they make a pretty decent job of the Wetlands Centre. Especially when you consider that Hammersmith is about a mile away as the crow flies (so to speak) For all you know you could be in the middle of the countryside; at least I imagine that is what it is like – having a serious allergy to the countryside, I tend to avoid all things pastoral and green.
So here we are with lots of water and plants called reeds, and away in the distance some white specks; which could be ducks, geese or shoppers on Hammersmith Broadway, it is difficult to say as although I have my camera, like a clot I forget my binoculars.
However, help is at hand in the form of one of the Wetland Centtre volunteers. These guys tend to hide out in the hides (as it were) and pounce on unsuspecting ‘Twitchers’ to point out some noteworthy species with the aid of a powerful telescope.

The London Wetland Centre Celebrate Their 10th Anniversary

Like today. ‘See the Peregrine Falcon?’ ‘Oh yes’ we lie. We can see nothing but some lousy rooftops and satellite dishes. I begin to take a photo but can’t get anything in focus. ‘It might be better without the lens cap Mr Daly’. says Ray all laconical. You see? Ever the practical one? Well pretty soon we give up on the damned falcon. Gill, Rog, Ray and I compare notes about the roof tops and satellite dishes as we retire to the relative safety of the café where we sit and over tea and sandwiches discuss the migratory patterns of small children in ‘high-vis’ vests and the distinctive calls and cries of their teachers. Perhaps we even get a bit nostalgic, between us taking school trips a’plenty back in the day. All in all a grand day out, Peregrine Falcon notwithstanding, and one I will treasure for many a year.

Ray

Ray

A Peregrine Falcon. Not the Peregrine Falcon

A Peregrine Falcon. Not the Peregrine Falcon

Andy Daly

In loving memory of Ray. A true gentleman.

The Teenage Brain

Now then,

if I seem to be sitting a bit gingerly, it is because I am ‘recovering’ from my bowel screening procedure. This is where they stick a camera up where the sun doesn’t shine (and I’m not talking about Greenland in the winter here) and look around for any pre- cancerous polyps. It feels like they forgot to take it off its tripod.

And then, when it’s over, like the log flume at Chessington World of Adventures, they give you a photograph! What are you supposed to do with it? Frame it, as ‘My Rectum’ and put it on the mantelpiece?

Anyway, I’m getting distracted. On to the Teenage Brain.

Not a very inspiring topic to write about I can hear you say, as there doesn’t seem to be much going on in many of them.

But you would be wrong. The Teenage Brain is an awesome piece of electro-chemical engineering. Specifically that period between

a) language aquisiton, the development of the skills to decode and navigate complex social and environmental situations. And

b) the discovery of alchohol.

I’ll explain what I mean.

Back in 1974 long before Lady Ga Ga was invented and I was fourteen, I borrowed the David Bowie album ‘Diamond Dogs’ from a friend for a week or so. We did that back then. I, like a lot of people was a big Bowie fan. I had ‘Space Oddity’ ‘The Man Who Sold the World’ ‘ Ziggy Stardust’ and ‘Pin Ups’ and found I loved ‘Diamond Dogs.’ Bowie’s vision of a dystopian post-apocalyptic world inspired in part by Orwell’s 1984. It was duly returned. I didn’t record it, because I didn’t have a cassette recorder and I didn’t buy the album either because I was too skint. Anyway the point is that during the week I immersed myself in the record but apart from the single ‘Rebel Rebel’ I haven’t listened to any of the songs from, or owned a copy of the album since.

Fast Forward forty two years (forty two!) to January 2016 and the news of Bowie’s death. I found myself looking on You Tube for something appropriate to mark the great man’s passing and came across the full album version of ‘Diamond Dogs’ and put it on. From the moment it started playing I began to sing along, and was astonished to find that I was able to recall the song lyrics word for word without even thinking about them. They had imprinted themselves on my still-developing brain back in 1974.

Who says there’s nothing worthwhile going on inside TheTeenage Brain?

Intereresting factlets: my sources (Wikepedia) tell me that ‘Diamond Dogs’ was originally conceived as a stage verion of ‘1984’, but the Orwell family would not release the rights. The sessions were held over the tail end of 1973 and early ’84 and mark Bowie’s last collaboration with Mick Ronson, although Ronson didn’t play on the album. In fact, apart from ‘When You Rock and Roll With me’ (Earl Slick) and ‘1984’ and ‘Rebel Rebel’ (session man Alan Parker uncredited for the latter) Bowie, as well as all the keyboards plays all the guitar parts. which makes for a kind of amateur-ish, garage band feel about the LP.

This ain’t Rock and Roll. This is genocide!

So now you know.

Andy Daly

2016

The Redcar Girls

After the unseemly incident with the beige overcoat, Chawkey, Wiz and Self   lived  in Sudbury Town in virtual domestic bliss with frequent visits from Neilio, and the Redcar Girls, including T Bag and Netty.

Not only that, but we sub-let the box room to ‘Dirty Dave’, a trainee Bank Manager who worked in Wembley. He aquired this nickname because that summer, when we were all away T Bag (AKA Tracey) took up residence in the house as she needed a place to stay, doing a work experience placement in London. ‘Dirty Dave’ was  in attendance.

One night after a shower for reasons best known to himself, lounging around in the front room in his dressing gown ‘Dirty Dave’ decided it would be a good idea to show Tracey his ‘tent’ and how pleased he was with it. He should have known better.

Tracey was more than a match for the amorous advances of some public school Billy Bunter Bank Manager. In fact she was quite capable of snapping his head off at the neck with a single satisfying chocolate bar advert style chomp then using her tongue, force his brains out through the ears, crunching the whole filthy lot up with a few fat chews, and gobbing it into the gutter.

But not before blowing a big grey bubble, which when it burst would send his cerebral goo all over the place.

You didn’t mess with ‘The Redcar Girls’

'Less it will yers' The Redcar Girls dressed as Biffa and the rest of the Bacon Family.

‘Less it will yers’ The Redcar Girls dressed as Biffa and the rest of the Bacon Family.

U2,You Too?

I love U2. Don’t you?

Bonio, The Hedge and the other two have made some epic music ever since their early years in Dublin where they were known as ‘Them’

They got their new name from the number on an alien spaceship that crash landed in Roswell US in 1947.

Bonio (AKA Bonio Vox/ Paul David Hewson) got his name from the sign over a shop in Dublin that sold hearing aids for dogs. And The Hedge? Well, no-one really knows … The distinctive-sounding baldy guitarist is very private about his privet.

U2 have had a million hits worldwide including ‘With Or without you’ ‘I Will Folllow’ ‘I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For and ‘Whiskey In The Jar’

Bonio and drummer Adam Clayton

Bonio and drummer Adam Clayton

The band has collaborated with other musicians, artists, celebrities, and politicians to address issues concerning poverty, disease, and social injustice. In fact it is common knowledge that Bonio has applied for job of Pope, which will requre him living in Italy. I’m sure it will be a big influence on his songwriting. Can’t wait for the next single and tour. Not arf!

Andy Daly 2016

The Softest Cushions

Our story starts with a blood red sunrise, which stains the sky with a deepening scarlet seeping into vivid blue as the giant orb slowly and majestically gains height and finally brings the dawn of a new day to an expectant half of the world. We are at that mystical, magical point where East meets West. Where cultures collide and echo to us down the centuries, speaking of a common human bond – a kinship, which is sadly overlooked in today’s busy and hectic world. The sunlight begins to play on the curves of the Great temple, to which hundreds of thousands make the pilgrimage at various times of the year to worship their Gods. Sadly, as is often the case, sanitary arrangements are insufficient for such influxes of people as a result, a fetid smell hangs in the air during the summer months.

That’s right! We’re in Wembley. Or rather YOU are. I’m not. Never mind all that ‘blood red sunrise’ bollocks, I’m still in bed. I haven’t seen any of it. Never one to avoid throwing myself whole-heartedly into heavy drinking, I have awoken after last night’s excesses with a ‘creeping’ hangover which will peak about 5 or 6 O’ clock: which is just when I plan to be going out again; unless I do something about it. This usually means ‘Hair of the Dog’. One I am going to have to catch and scalp in Wembley. For today is the day that Chawkey, Wiz and yours truly go to inspect and hopefully sign a contract for a rented house in Sudbury Town, to be exact.

We meet up, the intrepid threesome at the appointed hour, 10 O’Clock, in the offices of the Estate Agents handling the property, Benton and Crook.These are up on Wembley High Street while the house is right down in Sudbury Town. We are given the keys and left to go and have a look. Wiz drives us down there. On a street called the Dell just behind the parade of shops, it is perfect. Good sized rooms – we could even get away with sub-letting the ‘box-room’, clean, tidy with no garden to worry about. Handy for work, plenty of curry houses about, it ticked all the boxes. All agreed? Aye, let’s do it. So we made our way back up to the High street to sign the necessary papers and lighten our pockets to the tune of £280 deposit and a month in advance.

All paperwork done and dusted. It’s eleven thirty and we’re each spitting feathers. Time for a few scoops? Yes indeed! We wound up in that big ugly pub, just after the road branches off down to Wembley Park

Wiz didn’t hang around long, as he was driving, but Chawkey and me stayed a bit, chewing the fat. Although, I’d worked with him for over a year, I was really only just starting to get to know him. I enjoyed his company immensely.

In fact, Chawkey and me stayed a lot longer, so much so, that my ‘Hair of the Dog’ had done its trick, I had, at last begun to feel human again, but was dangerously close to getting pissed anew: which wouldn’t do at all, considering my evening arrangements.

So off we went into the rapidly fading light of this late afternoon Saturday. We made for Wembley Park on foot, Chawkey after an Uxbridge train to get to Ickenham, where he was staying, and me an Aldgate train and then a District line to Bromley-By-Bow. We said our goodbyes and legged it down to our respective platforms. I juuuust made it onto my train, which was quite busy for the time of day. As I sat down, I noticed to my right, a woman in a beige overcoat reading a paper.

I was soooo tired, the carriage lovely and warm …. I began to doze …

This desert was hell: so unforgiving … I simply remember being so exhausted, I could take not a step further. I fell where I stood. But they still wouldn’t let me sleep. All these questions: why? Although unable to distinguish individual voices or specific phrases, I could tell they were questions. I was convinced of it. I was aware of being carried and slung onto the ground

I had been moved – inside, judging by the absence of wind and a warm, comforting scent that played around my nostrils. I summoned all of my strength and opened one eye. I appeared to be in a large, sumptious tent. Everywhere I looked, every object and artefact seemed to be there purely to provide comfort. I slowly took it all in. Most tempting of all, right in front of me an enormous pile of beige cushions. I dug deep and summoned all of the strength I had, tottered over and with abandon, gave myself to the cushions. They were indescribeably comfortable. I plumped them up with my hands and finally … finally sank my face, my body deep into their yeilding softness ….

From far away, I was aware of a strangled scream. My body suddenly jolted to the left, My eyes opened to the sharp, harsh rustle of an aggresively shaken newpaper while the woman next to me bounced on the seat to the right, a very exaggerated attempt to move away. Opposite, two lads apopleptic with restrained laughter. Then the penny dropped. Oh no! … beige overcoat? …. beige cushions? … … I must have fallen asleep on this poor woman’s boosom.

I managed a weak smile, then clamped my eyes tight shut until I could sense Mrs. Beige had got off.

Beige cushions … Bloody Hell! I’m lucky I wasn’t arrested!

© Andy Daly 2016

Which Reminds Me…

Once upon a long time ago, we had a French friend who was at the dinner table
with her boyfriend’s parents for the first time. “Oh I say are you alright
Chantelle?” asked the concerned host as Chantelle appeared to choke on her
food. Keen to impress (as ever) with her wide vocabulary she replied
“Oh yes, I’ve just got something stuck in my clitoris!”

Of course she meant epiglottis.

Andy Daly