Hospital Staff Meeting

May I have your attention please ... welcome to this month's hospital meeting.

I would like to start by welcoming two new members of staff who have joined our team recently.

First Dr Steven Tremblehand, a surgeon known far and wide as Shaking Stevens, or Zorro, because his incisions are usually Z shaped.

Also, we welcome a new anaesthetist, Dr Ivor Hammer, who perfected his profession as a blacksmith making horse shoes.

I would also like to take this opportunity, whilst discussing members of staff, to quash and deny any rumours that Doctor Walter Scar is an escaped convict. He has in fact served the whole of his sentence for impersonating a policeman, a priest, a lawyer, a pilot, a financial adviser and a qualified electrician.

The first item on the agenda which I have been asked to bring to your attention is the proper usage of gurneys and wheelchairs. These items are only to be used for transporting patients from one place to another. They are not suitable, nor is it professional, to use them for anything else. Like transporting a fish tank from one building to another involving pushing a gurney through six corridors, using three elevators, and wheeling the poor critters outdoors through the gardens in full view of a flock of seagulls. The fight that ensued between doctors and birds is not worthy of mention; so I shall not mention that three of our members of staff were hospitalised with what is believed to be bird flu!

Talking of unprofessional behaviour, I have to insist that wearing Halloween type costumes and standing by the bedside of patients whilst they recover from the anaesthetic after an operation should cease forthwith. The other day a patient had a second heart-attack when he woke up to find the devil standing by one side and an oversized pumpkin by the other.

Whilst we're on to patients' care, may I remind you for the millionth time that you do not give patients laxative and sleeping pills at the same time. Come on people, you are supposed to be doctors and you should know the effects of this.

Furthermore, it is just not acceptable to ask a patient to "put your finger here" so that you can knot the surgical thread on their stitches.

And yes ... I have to confirm that our pharmacist Dr Pillbox has been fired for "improving", as he explained it, and inventing a new formula of instant laxative. There are times when instancy is not of such importance in patient care and a good bedside manner. And it was unforgivable to test his new concoction on some nurses on a break in the canteen.

By bedside manner, Dr Lothario, I mean looking after the patients by their bedside and not in bed with them!

And could you all please not refer to your offices as the "Insulting Room"? Who changed all the door notices to "Insulting Room"? Can you please change them back to the original without delay.

And to make one thing absolutely clear, the difference between private patients and patients on the Free Government Health Scheme is a matter for Finance Department and not for you as medical practitioners. The treatment the patients get and the standard of care is the same. You are not allowed to be rude to those patients on the Government Scheme or to laugh at them.

The other day, Dr Gastro, who will remain nameless called a patient "fatty!"

I'll read from the notes sent by our legal department after interviewing the patient, Mrs Patty Lard.

"The Dr told me I was overweight. He said 'Don’t eat anything fatty.' ”

I asked him, “You mean sausages, bacon, cream … that sort of thing?”

He said, “No … don’t eat anything … fatty!”

Now I know that Dr Gastro meant well in giving his advice; but that pause after the words 'don't eat anything' was unfortunate and misconstrued.

And please ... please ... doctors; be honest with your patients. Whatever is wrong with them, be honest with your diagnosis. Last week I saw a nun crying her heart out in the waiting room. I approached her trying to console her and to find out what was the matter. She said that Dr Fibber had told her that she was pregnant. That was an awful thing for a nun to hear. I asked Dr Fibber whether he was sure she is actually pregnant. He said that she is not, but he has certainly cured her hiccups!

Also a male patient told Dr Fibber that he believed he had water on the knee. Dr Fibber told him he is not aiming straight!

Another patient told the psychiatrist that he was a kleptomaniac. The psychiatrist recommended he takes something for it. 

Finally, we all know that patients tend to be embarrassed wearing nothing else but those gowns open at the back revealing their assets to one and all. Suggesting that they wear the gowns back to front is not an acceptable solution!

Now ... who has stolen my pants? I am sure I was wearing them when I came into this meeting.

A Nice Day Out

It was a lovely sunny day and we went for a drive to a small town some miles away for a nice day out. It will be great, I was told. They have a fun fair there, with a small gauge miniature train, and there'll be ice creams, and candy floss, and a garden center where you can buy plants and flowers and ... and ... and ...

Now I don't know about you ... why should I ... I hardly know you. Anyway, as I was saying ... I don't know about you, but my idea of a nice day out is staying in the back garden with a crate of cool cans or bottles of Guinness.

 But I was out-numbered. I was told I was a spoil-sport, an old fuddy-duddy who does not know how to enjoy himself, and anyway, there's bound to be a pub there which serves Guinness.

And indeed there was such a pub, but there also was a lot of walking. As soon as we parked the car everyone wanted to go there, and then there, and over there, not missing out also over there. What is the point of going for a nice day out if we're going to walk miles and miles seeing all sorts of boring things which we could have seen in a book at home in the comfort of one's garden with a bottle or two of Guinness?

We saw an arts exhibition, we saw a craft fare where people did all sorts of "interesting" things like glass engraving, metal jewellery, wooden sculptures and tapestries. Then it was decided, not by me, to have a nice walk by the canal to see the boats.

To be honest, they all looked the same. Granted, they were painted differently but all the long boats looked the same to me. But we walked ... and walked ... and walked by that never ending canal full of boats.

What is the point of walking by the canal watching parked boats with their owners on it, and their smug faces as if to tell you, "I have a boat and you haven't!"

Some of them were even having a picnic on their boats. Is this the idea of British entertainment and hi-life? Sitting on a parked boat having tea and cup cakes whilst the rest of us are walking by on the embankment without even a bottle of Guinness in hand? It was like watching the chimpanzees tea party at the zoo; only this one was on the boats.
 
Did you know that back in the day canals were built in Britain linking towns to each other and they were used to transport goods like coal, and wheat, and cotton or wool. Now they are used as an instrument of torture for people like me to walk aimlessly for miles admiring boats sailing up and down for no purpose whatsoever.

Then there was a sign post saying: "Ancient forge only 5 minutes walk. Just by entrance of the caves"

Why is it that people who advertise their wares or their trades are such a bunch of liars? After walking at least a million miles, and having worn out at least three pairs of shoes, we arrived at this long awaited forge of disappointment. All it was is a small warehouse where a man made things out of metal. Things like metal gates ... can you imagine me buying a metal gate from him and carry it all the way back to the car? Things like metal ornaments for the garden, or statuettes for the home, or anything else you could think of made of metal except a bottle of cold Guinness. Now that would be a nice ornament would it not?

Anyway, having finished with the forge, (does that word derive from forgery, I wonder), they wanted to visit the cave. And NO ... I could not sit there and wait for them. I had to go too.

Well, for a start it was rather dark in that cave; and I do not like darkness. So much so that I was once fired from a job at a photographers' because I wanted the lights on in the dark room.

I also don't like the darkness of the old style confessionals made of wood. And I don't mean the darkness of sin, (because I don't sin much, really - not like the other people in church), I mean the real darkness of the confessional booth you have to enter and confess to the priest. It's all right for him, I suppose. No doubt he has a bright light on and perhaps a TV watching the Sports Channel and a bottle or two of Guinness. But I'm in total darkness in my side of the confessional. Anyway; suffice it to say, I don't like the dark.

The cave was also damp and slippery. And I also don't like dampness. So much so that I now sit in the bath and vacuum clean myself.

We were guided by this tour guide fellow explaining all about this cave. He had a dull monotonous slow talking voice. My heart was all a flutter with boredom. He gave us brochures describing all there is to know about this particular cave but it was too dark to read them. I couldn’t help but wonder why not give us the brochures earlier and we could read all about the cave instead of entering this dark and damp adventure to nowhere.

The guide started talking as soon as I lost interest in what he was saying. All I could think of is being in the comfort of back home.

Not so for the other visitors to the cave. They just had to ask inane questions to make themselves sound interesting and knowledgeable.

"What stone is the cave made of?" asked one.

"Who cares?" I thought.

"It is made of granite," said the guide, "this is all granite!"

"How long have these stones been here?" asked another visiting idiot prolonging this never-ending tour.

"He's probably brought these stones here last week," I whispered and was rewarded with a sharp elbow in my ribs.

The guide explained that the granite stones had been here for two million years. So I asked him whether he adds extra days and weeks if he is asked the same question tomorrow, the day after, or in a week's or a month's time. Surely their age increases every day. It's not always two million years. One or two visitors giggled at my comment.

I now had to appear serious and I asked a serious question. I asked him why are all the stones different sizes.

Aha ... I got him. He had no answer to that. He said stones are always different shapes and sizes. Not a clever response, do you think? He continued sheepishly, and boringly touring us round this cave for at least another half-hour.

Eventually we were out ... fresh air ... and a long million miles walk back to the car and a long drive home.

Good fun was had by everyone ... except me!

How Great Thou Art

SIR CLIFF RICHARD OBE

Far from the Maddening Crowd

Settle down now and pay attention to our English Literature lesson. You may have all heard of Thomas Hardy the Victorian English novelist and poet; well this has nothing to do with him.

What we will learn today is about a book entitled "Far from the Maddening Crowd", which is different from the book with a similar title by Hardy. It is my version of it. Much shorter and perhaps gets to the point quicker, saving you hours of reading and understanding. And some would say more entertaining.

So here goes ...

Once upon a time there was a rich upper class woman called Bath Sheila, who owned a lot of land in Victorian England. Her neighbour was a sad and lonely very rich fellow called Bill Deadwood, who, to be honest should have been pruned a long time ago. She also employed a faithful shepherd called Gaby Soak and then there was this ex-seaman called Captain Rank Coy. You get the picture already, three men and one beautiful rich woman. I got to the point much quicker than Thomas Hardy. Let's continue ...

Now, the most astute and knowledgeable amongst you would have noticed a similarity between these character names and the ones in Thomas Hardy's book; but there the similarities end. I have used similar names in case any of you may venture to read the original, lengthier and more boring version.

As it happens, these three men fancied Bath Sheila and they wanted to marry her. 

The rich and old Bill Deadwood promised to share his land and cattle with her so their combined assets would ensure they lived in relative wealth comparative to Victorian times and customs.

The ex-seaman Captain Rank Coy said that he longed to go back to sea and once married he would take her with him to voyages far and wide filled with adventure, danger and the prospect of sea-sickness every morning ... noon ... and night.

Whilst the faithful honest shepherd Gaby Soak offered her true love, loyalty, and genuine caring and affection all the days of her life.

Unfortunately the indecisive Bath Sheila could not make up her mind between wealth, seafaring adventure and honest true love; even though the obvious choice between these three men stared her in the face. She should have gone for the rich Bill Deadwood and lived in luxury whilst he toiled and scrimped to provide for her. 

What is it with some women? Why do they take so long to make an obvious right decision?

I tried honesty and true love once! Just like the hapless Gaby Soak, it did not work out for me either.

I asked my first girl friend whether she would marry me. I genuinely loved her more than pizza and apple pie combined. Instead of saying "Yes" and marry me; she asked me why. Being honest I said because I loved her cooking and I liked the way she tidied up the house. She left me shortly afterwards. Fat lot of good honesty did for me.

With my next girl friend I tried the more  traditional, (Victorian), way and told her I was going to have a talk with her father.

I then said to her dad, "I have come to ask you for your daughter's hand!"

He was not the brightest penny in the purse. He asked me, "What do you want her hand for?"

I said, "You misunderstand me, Sir. I meant I would like your daughter to have my name!"

"What nonsense," he replied, "it would be silly calling her Victor. What's wrong with the name she was christened with? Hortence is a good name, I'll have you know. My mother and grand-mother were called Hortence. we come down from a long line of Hortences!"

Obviously I was getting no where with him. So I tried the direct approach and said, "I would like to marry your daughter!"

Not being one to make any decisions in his household he said, "Have you seen her mother?"

I replied, "Yes ... but I still prefer to marry your daughter!"

When I told Hortence that I had her parents' permission to marry, she said I'd better marry them then ... and she too left me after that. So Victorian tradition did not work any better than honesty for me.

Anyway ... back to my version of Far from he Maddening Crowd.

The silly Bath Sheila turned down all three of her suitors and decided to indulge in kissing a number of toads in the hope of finding her Prince Charming. This only led to unhappiness and many visits to the health clinic.

And the moral of the story is, "Why look for a toad when there are plenty of fish in the sea!"

A mixed meaningless metaphor if ever I heard one.

NOTE: If there are any literary books which you have read at school and got you bored out of your mind; and you would prefer my shorter more entertaining version of it, please let me know. I'll do my best to re-write.

Nightmare on Elmo Street

I had a terrible terrible nightmare the other night.

I dreamt I was in hospital and I had to undergo a serious operation. When I woke up from the operation I discovered they had transplanted a new hand on me. A third arm and hand had been transplanted on my stomach.

I had my two normal arms and hands and this third one out of my stomach at the front. What's worse, it was a female arm and hand.

It seemed to have a mind of its own. You should have seen it come out of my shirt and wave at people at the most inopportune time. The old lady on the bus fainted and nearly fell off the bus when my third hand waved goodbye at her.

I tried tucking it in under my belt but it was most embarrassing having it struggle to come out again.

Mind you, my third hand proved quite handy at the supermarket when I had to carry all that shopping!

I really should stop eating cheese before going to bed.

Brilliant Light Idea

How clever modern technology is. And how much fun can I have with such technology in my hands.

Now I am sure you have seen these products - easily available from the Internet through many vendors.

Basically it is a light bulb. But more clever than any other light bulb. You put it in its place hanging from the ceiling and with the use of a remote control you can change the colour of the light. From bright white to red, blue, green, violet and many other colours as you wish. You can dim the lights. Or make them bright. You can program a sequence of colour changes too. All by pressing a few buttons on the remote control.

Clever? Yes ... but that is not all.

With this light bulb, it also has a tiny speaker hidden in it. And with your smart cell-phone, and the use of an app (whatever that is - is it a small apple?) anyway ... with the use of the app on your phone you can play music through the light bulb.

Imagine ... you can dim the lights when you are in a romantic mood with your loved one and have Frank Sinatra singing through the light bulb:

Strangers in the night
Exchanging glances
Wondering in the night
What were the chances
We'd be sharing love
Before the night was through?

Now that's clever ... don't you think?

NOT IN MY HANDS !!!!!

This is what I did the other day when I had a lady guest at home.

I dimmed the lights as we sat there cosily on the settee, and then, by pushing a few buttons on the smart phone app there was the sound of a mosquito in the room.

BZZZZZZZZZ Silence BZZZ BZZZ BZZZZZZ silence again then BZZZZZZ BZZZZZZZ

It was unnerving but very funny. At first she was too polite to say anything. Then she mentioned perhaps there was a wasp or bee in the house and we did not notice whilst the TV was on. 

I switched the lights on bright, and the sound off. No bee or wasp or mosquito anywhere. 

Then dimmed the lights and BZZZZZ .... BZZZZZZZ again. What fun!

On another occasion, with another guest, as I dimmed the lights there was the faint sound of weeping coming from the light bulb.

"Is there anyone in the house?" she asked.

"No ... only us ... why do you ask?"

"I hear someone crying ... it is faint ... didn't notice it before when the TV was on ..."

"I can't hear anything ..."

"Listen ... can you hear it now ...?"

"Yeah ... now you mention it ... Mind you, it is an old house and I was told it is haunted ... I don't believe it though ..."

"I'm scared ..."

"Here ... let me cuddle you ..."

I think these light bulbs are excellent. The possibilities are endless.

"Help ... let me out ... I am the genie of the lamp trapped in this modern light bulb!!!"

The Language of Love

I went to visit a psychiatrist friend of mine the other day. As well as being a psychiatrist, in his spare time he is also a carpenter, a painter and decorator, as well as being a baker. As soon as I entered his insulting room he asked me to lie on the couch. I asked him why. After all, I was not there as a patient but to ask him to come and fix my car which was behaving rather oddly of late.

He said, "It's a new couch. I made it myself!"

I humoured him and lay on the couch. It was a bit wobbly because it had one leg shorter than the others. So he put a book by some fellow called Freud under the short leg. I asked him, "This looks an important book. Are you sure it's OK to put it under the couch?"

"Oh it's boring," he replied, "full of words and no pictures at all!"

He sat on his chair beside the couch and opened his notebook.

"What seems to be the problem?" I asked him from my supine position.

"My wife doesn't understand me," he said wistfully.

"Is it a personal marital problem?" I enquired.

"No ..." he said, "she is Greek and does not understand a word of Austrian!"

"But the language of love is international," I said trying to sound knowledgeable in the affairs of the heart.

"Not when she feeds you moussaka every day," he answered sadly, "I told her I don't like aubergines but she does not seem to understand!"

I said nothing for a while and wondered how the two of them had met. I asked him and he replied, "I was in Athens on holiday and met her at a small taverna. She was the local wrestling champion. After the meal I inadvertently broke a plate and she took that as a sign of amourous intent. Before I could say moussaka we were married!"

"I understand ..." I said, more as a token of sympathy rather than comprehension.

"Oh ... for a plate of rindsuppe," he sighed, "or gulasch, followed by a big slice of apfelstrudel. But instead, it's moussaka every day!"

"But surely you can reason with her," I suggested.

"I do ..." he said, "but she always beats me at arm wrestling. So moussaka it is once more!"

At this point a large woman entered the room and spoke in a language I did not understand. It was all Greek to me. She had a Greek recipe book in her hand and showed my friend various delicacies such as stuffed vine leaves, youvarlakia, avgolemono and baklava. Before I could ask him what these foods were, he kissed his wife and the two of them left hurriedly the insulting room, leaving me lying down on the short-legged couch.

Ah ... the language of love!

Neighbourhood Watch Meeting

May I have your attention please? Thank you ... and welcome to this month's meeting of the Neighbourhood Watch Scheme.

As you know, the last meeting of the Neighbourhood Watch was aborted because no one turned out. All members of the Neighbourhood Watch Scheme were out watching ... ... ... the fireworks at No 43 Acacia Avenue which unfortunately got out of control and burnt the house down.  Thankfully, no one got hurt, but those azaleas will never look the same again. Fortuitously the fire also destroyed the collection of hideous gnomes adorning the front garden of that property and lowering the tone of the neighbourhood somewhat.

I also want to report an incident which should serve as a lesson to all of us. The Neighbourhood Watch Scheme thrives on the participation of all of us and the community spirit which it engenders.

Speaking of spirits, the other night I was coming back from the pub with one of you who will remain nameless in order to spare Harry's blushes. It was about 10 o'clock at night, and as we walked home we kept an eye on every house we passed to see that all was well and there was nothing suspicious to report.

As we came by the Murgatroid's house, which as you know is a bungalow, we noticed that the front room, which is their bedroom, had its lights on and the curtain had been left open.

We looked through the window and saw that Mr and Mrs Murgatroid were busily doing their exercises on the bed. They were probably celebrating a birthday or an anniversary and in their excitement had forgotten to draw the curtains. Harry wanted to ring the doorbell and warn them but I dissuaded him because I thought it was unfair to spoil the moment. That night they gave Neighbourhood Watch a completely new meaning.

So take care when being amorous with your spouse, friend or neighbour and draw the curtains first.

Now that we have the Tinternet in all our homes we shall communicate with each other by this new e-mail type thing, rather than sending letters through the post. The old system was slow and had its drawbacks when the Post Office was on strike. Sadly, we all got to hear than Miss Hungerford was not well three weeks after her funeral.

We've have been advised by the police that there has been a number of burglaries in a neighbouring area and that we should be on the look-out, and to take extra precautions.

You are advised that, whenever you leave the house you throw all the chairs haphazardly on the floor; also throw all cushions on the floor as well as pictures off the wall, and empty all contents of drawers all over the place making the house as untidy as possible. This way if any burglar comes in, he will see all the mess and think you've already been burgled and leave without disturbing anything.

If ever you are the only one at home, of course, you don't need to untidy the house. Instead every so often go to the front door and bark like a dog to frighten any passer-by. Preferably, bark like two types of dogs. A big ferocious one and a tiny yappy one to give the impression you have two dogs. I did that the other day and it excited our own real dog who also joined in the barking. Last night he got so much into the act that he bit me in the backside. So if you already have a dog, you don't need to bark yourself.

Sadly, I have to report that Henry Smythe, a former member of this Neighbourhood Watch and the manager of the local IKEA store died last week. His funeral was delayed because no one could assemble his flat-pack coffin.

Also, I have been made aware that Peter Fordham, the old man who lives alone at Number 19 may have got himself a dog. I saw him with a dog lately. He must have named him "Help" because all day yesterday he kept calling, "Help ... Help ... Help ..." He eventually must have found his dog because he stopped calling it. There was an ambulance outside No 19 this morning. Does anyone know why?
No ... no one ... OK we'll move on.

We have had a spate of doormat swappings in our street lately. No one knows how it started. Most houses have a doormat or rug by their front doors for visitors to wipe their feet on before entering the house. Some have personalised doormats with the words "Smith Residence" or such like. Others have plain rubber doormats, or multi-coloured ones or whatever. Every one, or almost every one, has a doormat by their front door.

Lately, these doormats have swapped places. We get up in the morning and find that instead of our doormat we have the one from a few houses up the road, and they have another doormat which does not belong to them either; and every house has a doormat which belongs to their neighbours from further up the road, rather than the one living just next door.

I realise that it is pandemonium and inconvenient in the morning for everyone to be out and swap mats around. Especially those of you who got out in the street in various stages of undress ... ... ...  Helen and Donald.

Also, does anyone know why Mr Harrison from Number 14 came out of house Number 18 in his pyjamas with the young lady living there following him in her nightdress?

On Tuesday Wendy from Number 32 was rushed into hospital with two burnt ears. Apparently she answered the phone whilst ironing. The doctors asked her how she burnt her other ear. She replied: "It happened when I phoned for an ambulance!"

On Friday a cement mixer collided with a prison van at the crossroads up the street. The police are looking for some hardened criminals.

If there is nothing else to report, I declare this meeting of the Neighbourhood Watch Scheme closed.

A Portrait of the Victor as a Young Man

A PORTRAIT OF THE VICTOR AS A YOUNG MAN

(With apologies to James Joyce)

It all happened so long ago yet memories flood back as clearly as if it were just happening.

As a young man I had to visit one of our Branch Offices in the big city with a colleague of mine, Josh MacKintosh, to discuss future sales and profits projections.

It was a cold and snowing winter's day when we arrived at the Railway Station and were met by a chauffeur driven car sent by our Branch Office - after all, it isn't often they get a visit from top management, and they were trying hard to impress.

The visit was to last for two days and they looked after us well. At the end of the first day they offered the chauffeur driven car to take us to the hotel.

As we entered the car, the driver asked us which hotel we were staying at, and Josh blurted out an address. The driver raised an eyebrow and said nothing.

At this point I should mention perhaps that Josh MacKintosh was carefull with money. He had an aversion to opening his wallet lest he disturbed the moths living there.

As the car drove on, heading outside the big city, I noticed that the surroundings were becoming less and less salubrious. It was obvious from the houses and the general feel of the place that we were heading for the poorer part of town ... much poorer part of town. Despite the snow covering everything with its mantle of white it could not hide the poverty of the place.

It was as if we were travelling back in time to Dickensian England.

Eventually the posh car stopped outside a dilapidated house. The chauffeur got out of his seat and opened the doors for Josh and I. He then opened the boot and brought us our luggage.

Around us a lot of urchins stopped playing football with a rolled up sock filled with sand and looked at us in our pin-striped suits. They'd obviously never seen a limousine before nor anyone dressed as we did.

The chauffeur saluted by touching his hat gently and then drove off.

As we stood there in the freezing cold I heard myself mumble "Are you sure about this, Josh?"

 

"Och aye ... it's OK," he said, "my friend recommended it!"

 

We entered the house and were met by a young-ish woman named Elvira; she was in her mid-thirties I would guess.

 

She took us to our rooms upstairs and suggested that "dinner" was at seven o'clock prompt.

As Elvira left I noticed that the door had no lock, and the room was rather cold and damp, but at least it had hot and cold running cockroaches.

I killed one of them on the wall by my bed and pretty soon there were dozen others attending the funeral.

I pulled the bed away from the wall and the cockroaches pulled it back to hide their habitat.

I decided that we were not eating at this place. We had no choice but to spend the night there, especially since it was cold and snowing outside and our car had gone, but I had no intention to risk eating at this unhygienic house.

 

Josh and I went out for somewhere to eat ... but would you really find a restaurant in this part of town? We just bought a bit of bread, some cheese and an apple or two from a small shop still open and decided to eat in our rooms.

As we neared the house a man brandishing a knife stopped us and asked for our wallets or our lives. I must admit that for a few seconds I had difficulty in deciding.

I then said sarcastically, "You're too late mate! We've already been mugged by another man down the street."

To my surprise our mugger replied, "Oh that must be Gary. I told him many times this is my street!"

He let us go and as we were leaving he shouted "Say Hi to Elvira for me !!!"

Josh and I got home and after sharing our meagre repast we decided to call it a day.

I went to my room, got in bed to keep warm as best I can, and started reading the many reports I'd been given by Branch Office about their sales and profits projections.

After an hour or so there was a knock at the door and Elvira came in wearing a very revealing see-through white negligent. (Is that what they call it?)

I did not know where to look ... well, I did really, because she was speaking to me at the time. And it is not polite to look elsewhere when someone is speaking to you.

"Do you want some time?" she asked with a smile.

I must have misheard her, (or was it my subconscious), because I looked at my watch and said "It is a quarter to ten!"

She moved forward a couple more steps teasingly and asked again "Do you want something to keep you warm?"

"Yes please," I replied, "I'd like a hot chocolate drink if I may".

"You don't understand ..." she continued patiently as she sat on the bed, "You have not left your shoes outside the door, which means you require personal services ..."

At last the penny dropped in a young man's befuddled mind. So that's why she was wearing nothing else but the revealing see-through negligent despite the freezing cold! I thought she was just hot-blooded.

"My shoes ..." I mumbled "I'll ... I'll ... I'll put them out later ... I must have forgotten ..."

"So I went to all this trouble for nothing?" she growled as she stood up, "do you think your friend forgot to put his shoes out too?"

"I don't know ... better ask him ..." I mumbled again as she left.

Needless to say, I stayed up all night fearful in case anyone took my shoes !!!

NOTE: This was an excerpt from my memoires 

"AS I QUOTE MYSELF" 

Please CLICK HERE

My Word Is My Bond

The motto of The London Stock Exchange is Dictum Meum Pactum - My Word Is My Bond.

This dates back to the days when stocks and shares dealers used to make verbal deals as to whether to buy or sell company shares from each other and at what price. Dealing was no doubt fast and furious. You had to decide quickly before prices change. Those were the days before computers. So you make a verbal agreement to seal the bargain and stick to it. Total trust between members of the Stock Exchange was vital. Dictum Meum Pactum.

Do you take God at His Word? Is His Word His Bond?

Or do you harbour the slightest, tiniest, little bit of doubt at the back of your mind? A doubt that niggles as you try to wipe it away; but it is still there. Telling you that perhaps ... maybe ... who knows ... God did not mean what He said. God is perhaps not listening to your prayers  ... or maybe He doesn't exist at all.

Jesus told His disciples, "Do not be worried and upset. Believe in God and believe also in Me." John 14:1

You cannot get it plainer than this. When Christ uttered these words to His disciples, and to us, He meant them. There was no figure of speech there. No ifs ... or buts ... or notwithstanding the afore mentioned ... or any other legalise or escape clause. It was straight talking. Believe in God and Me.

On another occasion Jesus said, "I tell you: When you pray and ask for something, believe that you have received it, and you will be given whatever you ask for." Mark 11:24

Again ... no ambiguity here. Straight talking; just like when He said, "I am telling you the truth; the Father will give you whatever you ask Him for in my name. Until now you have not asked for anything in my name; ask and you will receive, so that your happiness may be complete." John 16:23-24

Let us now consider what these promises and invitations to trust God really mean.

To the simple mind, one would rub their hands in glee and ask for wealth and fame and fortune beyond imagination. Hoping that God would provide them.  After all, Jesus promised it, and we take Him at His word. He said so.

But in reality, this cannot be so. God is not our obedient genie Whom we have freed from the bottle or the magic lamp. He is not our servant, at our beck and call ready to respond to our every command. He is our Creator Father, who having loved us so much, He gave us the freedom to choose for ourselves whether to love Him back or not. He asks nothing more of us than to love Him back in return and obey His Commandments. The final decision is ours to make.

Like any loving Father He is pleased when we ask for our needs, and for that of others, and He is only too willing to respond in a way and at a time that befits our benefit; that is good for us.

Our prayers should be ones which express our inner thoughts and feelings with honesty and asking for His help and guidance on the way ahead.

For example, rather than directing Him on what to do; "God please let my son/daughter etc... get a good job ... gain a promotion ... pass the exam/driving test ... find a suitable spouse etc ..." our prayer should be one which expresses our concerns and love for others. A prayer for ourselves even. We should ask Him for His favours for our needs whilst acknowledging that He still retains full control of the situation.

For example, "Lord you know how I feel about my son/daughter and their present situation. Lord I offer them to your care knowing full well that you love them more than I can ever do; and that you will care for them on my behalf in this life and the next."

By offering a person or situation to the Lord you are in effect relinquishing any control that you may, or may not, have on the situation. You are asking God to take over. And, (hopefully), you totally mean it. You are not paying lip service to the prayer you have just said. You make no attempt to still remain in control; to continue to worry about that person or situation.

That is what Christ meant when He said, "Believe in God and believe also in Me," and, "When you pray and ask for something, believe that you have received it, and you will be given whatever you ask for."

He asked us to believe and trust Him. His Word is His bond. We should trust Him in full confidence, without the slightest doubt, that He is listening and will respond.

Fake News

The world is at peace.

No more wars throughout the world. No more fighting. No more killings.

Humanity has finally learnt to forgive. No retaliation, retribution or revenge. 

People everywhere love each other. Regardless of race, religion, sex, sexuality, colour, age, marital status, profession or any other differences.

No more famines. No more hunger.

No more sickness and suffering.

No more evil, cheating, stealing, adultery, abortion or any sin whatsoever.

I like to drink Guinness.

P.S. - The last one is true.

It is freezing cold ... and I lost my Willy

For the last few days we've had a dilemma on our hands in the family. It was and still is such a big dilemma that it is on all our collective minds.

No to put too fine a point on it ... I lost my Willy. We looked everywhere but it is not to be found. It seems it is lost for ever. What can any man do without their Willy?

My Willy, also known as Speedy, went missing. We looked everywhere and could not find him. Not in the garden. Not in any neighbours' gardens, because we asked them. Not in the house. Not in the garage, not in the car, or indeed not anywhere. Willy went missing. I woke up. Looked . Willy was gone.

I knew my Willy was not hiding in some orifice or corner somewhere because he is totally claustrophobic.

He is the only tortoise I know who gets really stressed about going back into his own shell. He hibernates in winter with his head and legs hanging out of his natural home. He prefers the outdoors. We have to wrap his head in a small scarf we've knitted for him and put his legs in home-made socks to keep him warm.

We've had him for two years or so and he shares the garden with a rabbit called Bob. They often lunch together on a leaf or two of lettuce and they wander about; always under the watchful eye of someone in case they get through the hedge to the neighbour's garden.

At night they are put in their cage for safety. Willy is always out in the garden early in the morning jumping and running around with his friend Bob the rabbit.

Obviously what happened is that one day last week, or should I say one evening last week, we forgot to put them in the cage for the night. It happened before with no great problem. The next morning they were both there waiting to be fed. But this time, the rabbit was there, but not Willy. He had vanished.

Being a tortoise, we did not think he'd gone very far. We searched everywhere as already mentioned and we could not find him. We printed leaflets with his photo, (we could have used a photo where he is smiling, but never mind), and then we pinned the leaflets to trees and lamp-posts in our area. We posted leaflets in neighbours houses asking them if they'd seen Willy; but to no avail. No one had seen him.

Then yesterday he was found. He was up a tree in our garden. There he was. Sitting on a branch some twenty feet up from the ground. Totally unperturbed and happy with his surroundings.

How did he get up there? I thought. Tortoises don't usually climb trees do they? More to the point, how do we get him down? It's certainly not something I'd want to do, climbing all the way up there.

Perhaps if we called him down and we all held a large sheet into which he would fall safely? No use. He is as deaf as a deaf bat ... sorry, only simile I could think of on the spur of the moment.

I phoned the pet shop where we normally buy the lettuce leaves to feed him and the rabbit. The man there told me that perhaps he took fright at something he saw and ran up the tree. Perhaps he saw someone with face cream and hair in curlers and that was enough to send him into a total panic.

Now I'll admit that once or twice I may have ventured in the garden with my skin softening and conditioning cream on, and a curler or two in my hair; but that would not have frightened Willy, surely? Anyway, how did the man in the pet shop know I use face cream?

Eventually, one of our neighbours who is not afraid of heights came round and brought Willy safely down to terra firma. You should have seen him waggling his tail and jumping at our legs in delight.

I mean Willy the tortoise was jumping at our legs, not the neighbour who brought him down!

Bob the rabbit was so happy to see Willy that they chased each other round the garden as they often do when playing. The neighbour was so delighted that he ran round chasing them also.

Totally exhausted, we put them both in their cage with an extra lettuce leaf each to celebrate.

We still don't know how Willy got up the tree. Any ideas?

Personally, I think he was over enthusiastic on the trampoline and he bounced himself so high that he landed on the branch twenty feet up.

This is me and our neighbour on the trampoline celebrating the return of Willy the tortoise.