Love on the last train ...

The platform was crowded with late-night revellers anticipating the arrival of the last train home.
Remarkably, the information board indicated that St. Anley's homeward-bound train would be on time.
It also recommended that passengers intending to alight at Fishbourne, Bosham, Nutbourne etc. should travel in the front SEVEN coaches, owing to short platforms at these stations.

St. Anley noticed a woman.
She had shapely legs and a comely face.
He guessed that her male companion was her partner as he repeatedly caressed her buttocks.
The lady didn't seem to mind.
("He's on a promise tonight," thought St. Anley!)

The train pulled in and St. Anley boarded coach number SIX, as did several other people, including the shapely-legged lady and her man-friend.
St. Anley squeezed down the central aisle to occupy a seat which, by pure chance, afforded a view of the aforementioned legs.
Eye contact was made.
The lady smiled.
Indeed, she had a very pleasing countenance in a mature sort of way.
The lady remarked sympathetically, "You seem to be heavy-laden."
St. Anley was carrying his mandocello in its gig-bag, and another large, soft bag.
St. Anley just smiled back, wordlessly implying, "It's OK, I don't have far to go."

"Good evening," snapped a disembodied voice.
"This is your on-board supervisor. Welcome aboard this Southern train bound for Portsmouth Harbour, calling at Fishbourne, Bosham, Nutbourne [etc.]"
"Please be advised that passengers intending to leave the train at Fishbourne, Bosham, Nutbourne [and others] can only alight from the front FOUR coaches, owing to short platforms ..."

"What coach is this?" people asked anxiously.
It was unanimously agreed that we were two coaches further back from where most of us needed to be.
In unison people rose from their seats to surge forwards.

Well, it was almost in unison ...
St. Anley was delayed by struggling with his mandocello, the shoulder-strap of which had become wound around his left ankle.
He struggled.
"Let me help you," said the smiling lady with shapely legs and pleasing countenance.
St. Anley was obliged to politely avert his gaze from a generous display of cleavage as she leaned over to assist his disentanglement.
"Thank you so much," he said in some embarrassment.
"That's alright," she replied, "I always like to demonstrate the milk of human kindness!"
(Did she know precisely what St. A. had been thinking a moment ago?)

The lady extracted the musical instrument in its bag and slung it over her shoulder. She grabbed the other bag from off St. Anley's lap and tossed it to her gentleman friend.
"Here, take this," she commanded.
"Now, follow me!"
St. Anley, impressed by her authority, had no choice.
"What is this?"
St. Anley explained that it was a mandocello, a musical instrument.
"Cello coming through!" she announced as she barged her way through the other passengers. 
St. Anley followed after, his heart full of joy.

Soon this procession arrived in coach FOUR, just as the train departed Fishbourne.
At the first vacant aisle-seat the lady turned.
"You sit there!" she said.
She deposited the instrument on the adjacent window-seat, and her gentleman friend handed over the other bag.
"Thank you, so very much," said St, Anley again.
The lady bent over once more, with another, full-frontal display of human kindness.
Then she kissed him fully on the lips.
This time, St. A. kept eyes open.
"Ah, you've made my day!" he exclaimed.

The smiling lady with shapely legs found seats for herself and her gentleman friend a little further up the carriage.
She continued to smile.
The gentleman was now stroking her inner thigh.

A few minutes later the train pulled in at St. Anley's home station, Nutbourne.
St. Anley rose, with no difficulty this time, hoisted his belongings on to his shoulders and stood waiting at the door.
Eye contact was resumed.
Smiles were shared.
The door opened.
The entire company waved and said, "Good night."
The lady's gentleman friend gave a thumbs-up sign.
The smiling lady with shapely legs, pleasing countenance and other comely bits blew a kiss.

Saint Anley turned to wave before adopting a kneeling posture on the platform.
The on-board supervisor was very concerned.
"Are you alright?" he asked.
"I am simply thanking the Almighty for the milk of human kindness!"

Moving House #1 ...

People have asked Saint Anley, “What made you move house?”
His summary answer is, “My wife!”

The whole story is, however, more complicated …

September, 2013 …
St. A and Mrs St. A are returning from home a leisurely cycle ride along the West Sussex coast.
Jane, in the lead, suddenly cries out, “Turn left!”
To turn left is not the way home, but before St. A can argue, Jane has taken the corner at break-neck speed generating considerable g-force.
Just north of a railway station they discover a new residential development where a large sign announces, “SHOW-HOUSE OPEN.”

To view the show-house requires people to go through a comfortably appointed sales office.
Veronica, the sales exec., greets them engagingly.
“What is your situation?” she enquires.
By this, of course, she intends to discover how serious we are about relocation.
Within moments Jane has divulged every confidential detail of her assets, our savings and investments.
“No, our house is not on the market,” says Jane.
“Ah,” says Veronica, “Have you heard about our part-exchange scheme?”
“Now, this sounds interesting,” thinks St. A, but Jane, true to form, does all the talking.
“From what you say,” says Veronica, “You should be able to make this work.”

St. A trembles at the thought of relocating all those redundant items that have been carelessly stored in the loft over 15 years.

“Would you like to view the show-house?” enquires Veronica. “This way.”
In deepening depression, St. A follows.
“That’s lovely!” says Jane as we enter a new, clean and tastefully appointed entrance hall.
We are guided through room after room that have all the character of a home that has obviously never been lived in: immaculately clean, no mess, no clutter.
The furniture and decor are not completely to our taste, but it’s only the show-home after all.
We sit for a while in a light, airy conservatory.
“Is the conservatory included?” asks Jane.
“Errr, no,” replies the sales exec. “For twenty grand we can put one on,” she adds in an undertone.

At this juncture, St. A’s depression achieves the quality of terminal melancholia, as he consumes all the complimentary boiled sweets that are on offer in every room.

We return to the office where Veronica plies Jane with all sorts of promotional leaflets, plans and artists’ impressions.



Artist's impression.

Veronica recommends a solicitor and a mortgage broker.
St. A looks on and listens in silence.

St. A reluctantly agrees when Jane says that we will go away and think about it.
After all, there's no urgency; most of the development is far from complete.

That same evening, a Saturday, Jane studies all the documents in mounting anticipation.
St. A dutifully prints out a copy of what joint finances we think we might have.
“We can do this!” declares Jane excitedly.

At 7.00pm the telephone rings unexpectedly: “Hello, I am a solicitor. I hear you are interested in a part-exchange deal with [housing developer].”
(Now, how does he know this?)
St. A passes the phone to Jane. There follows an animated conversation to which St. A is not party.

Phone rings again: “Hello, I am a mortgage broker …”
“Jane, it’s for you!”

“Right,” says Jane later to a morose St. A, “We’re going back tomorrow!”

St. Anley endures the first of many sleepless nights.

Saint Anley remembers Mrs. G ...

After 1 year as an undergraduate, St. Anley was expelled from this comfortable university accommodation ...

Now, be assured, this expulsion was not the result of any unspecified misdemeanour that he recalls.
Apparently the university authorities unwisely considered that St. Anley possessed the experience and maturity to survive in the independent accommodation sector.
It was all downhill from there.

A North London suburb, early 1970s …

This was not the most salubrious accommodation: an unheated, drafty, ground-floor bed-sit, a single-element ‘Belling’ hob, a cracked kitchen sink, a few sticks of furniture and an apology for a bed.

The room cost St. Anley only £3.50 per week.
The price for using this shared bathing facility was 20p.

Mrs. G. lived in a room upstairs.
Mrs. G. liked St. Anley.
I think he became just a little fond of her.

Regularly she would interrupt St. A’s evening studies by knocking on his door.
“Come and keep me company,” she used to say.
Now, Mrs. G. was fortunate: she had a television set!
“Of course!” would be the enthusiastic response.

Mrs. G. was a mature lady.
Well, she was just a little older than St. Anley, and clearly experienced.
She was a single mum.
She lived with her infant daughter, Bridget.

Mrs. G. wasn’t exactly pretty; 'handsome' is a better word.
She had a pleasing face, a delightful smile, that revealed only one blackened tooth, and an engaging Irish accent.
She was slightly large in all the right places.
Occasionally she would accidentally(?) display her generous cleavage.
Being a sensitive gentleman, St. Anley would politely avert his gaze to watch the television.

Once Bridget was asleep, in a bed that she would later share with her mother, Mrs. G. would ply St. Anley with coins from her meagre welfare benefit.
“Off you go to the off-licence,” she would say.
“Get some beer.”

Obediently, off he went to the alcohol-retailer on Green Lane.
That was only a mile-and-a-half away.
On his return, an hour later, they drank the beer.
(Does anyone else remember 7-pint cans of Watney's Red Barrel?)

Mrs. G. would fall asleep in her armchair.
(St. Anley didn't have an armchair!)
St. Anley would then quietly withdraw to his own room, bearing inexplicable feelings of guilt in his soul.

Nothing else ever happened ...

          ... except that St. Anley failed his first academic exam!

I miss Mrs. G.

　

　

　

Regarding Baron Guillaume Dupuytren ...

 

Baron Guillaume Dupuytren
(1777 -1835)

 This French anatomist and surgeon is best remembered for having treated Napoleon's haemorrhoids.

He also described this condition, known eponymously as Dupuytren's contracture ...

 

 

In some cultures this could be perceived as a rude gesture.

Above, you see St. Anley's ageing left hand, with the characteristic deformity of fixed flexion of the little finger.  This has become rapidly more apparent since the beginning of the year. There is also some thickening involving the flexor tendons of his ring and middle finger.

St. Anley, having trawled earlier medical knowledge, and after consulting wikipedia, knows what it is. It will only get worse.

"Please may I have an appointment to see my GP?" asks St. Anley on the telephone.

"Of course," replies Tracey, (now a medical receptionist.)
"Come along at 7.30 in the morning."
(Gosh, these doctors work long hours these days.)

My GP's surgery just after sunrise.

The consultation proceeds thus:

• Doctor: "You have a Dupuytren's contracture."
• St. Anley: "I know."
• Doctor: "It will only get worse."
• St. Anley: "I know. What can be done?"
• Doctor, becoming animated: "Surgery!"
• St. Anley, anxiously: "Will it hurt?"
• Doctor, with considerable glee: "Undoubtedly!!"
• St. Anley, with furrowed brow: "Is it life threatening?"
• Doctor, becoming impatient: "There is the highly regrettable risk that you will survive!!!" (I think this doctor doesn't like me.)
• St. Anley: "What's the recovery time?"
• Doctor: "Oh, about three months."
• St. Anley, dejectedly: "How will I be able to play my musical instruments?"
• Doctor: "Badly!"

... No change there, then!

Don't worry, I've got a screwdriver ...

Mrs. St. Anley takes her mobile phone to bed with her.

As St. Anley emerged from the shower on Monday morning, Mrs announced from her bed, “I’ve just ordered a new deep-freeze!”
She then went on to express amazement at her ability to spend money while still half asleep.
“It will be delivered on Thursday.”

As Thursday approaches St. Anley begins to wonder where it will go in the house.
“I’d like it upstairs in the tiny spare bedroom,” Says Mrs. St. A.
“How big is it?”
St. Anley studies the dimensions on-line.
“No way … it won’t go round the corner at the top of the stairs.”
“OK, we’ll move the kitchen dresser … err … somewhere, and have it next to the fridge in the kitchen.”

Much given to considerable morbid anticipatory anxiety worthy of a sufferer of OCD, he studies the dimensions again.
“Will it go through the front door?”
Width = 665mm.
St. Anley measures the door aperture - 690mm. Should be OK.

On Thursday afternoon, having created an adequate space in the kitchen, a large van arrives outside the house and St. Anley greets two cheery strong-men.

“Freezer for you, Sir!”

Then the fun begins …

Yes, it fits through the door frame, but that door handle is in the way.

Fit the best ...
Fit Everest.

“Don’t worry,” says St. Anley, “I’ve got a screw-driver. I’ll take it off.”
“Hmm …this is a bit stubborn.”

PING & POING … several springs of formidable strength scatter about the front porch.

Whoops!

 

“That’ll do fine,” smiles one of my strong men.
St. Anley considers the prudence of this exercise.
They manoeuvre the item through the front door.

Then, we come to an inner door ...
“It won’t go through that.”
“Don’t worry,” replies St. Anley, (worrying all the time,) “I’ve got a screw-driver. I’ll take it off its hinges.”

Heave-ho again … “No,” announces second strong man, “That architrave will have to come off too.”

St. Anley imagines total destruction of his home and considers sending the item back.

Cheerful strong man observes, “I notice you have a back passage.”
( St. Anley avoids the temptation to respond, “You’re not putting it up there!”)

Second strong man is now becoming grumpy: “We have a schedule to keep, you know.”

Now, please understand, the ‘back passage’ is a narrow alleyway at the side of the house.
It has a badly fitting wooden gate.
“Don’t worry,” replies St. Anley, “I’ve got a screw-driver. I’ll take it off its hinges.”
Side gate disintegrates into firewood.

More heave-ho, and via the back door the freezer is finally positioned next to the fridge in the kitchen.

Strong men depart, one with a cheery smile, the second with a disdainful grunt.

“Hello, Everest,” (St. Anley imagines it’s Tracey again,) “I’ve done a silly thing …”

“Yes," says Tracey, “No problem. I can have an operative to mend your front door handle there tomorrow.”
“Now, can I have your credit card details … it’ll cost you £99.00.”

There are several lessons here:

1. Never allow your wife to use her mobile phone in bed.
2. Never interfere with an Everest door handle.
3. Never admit to possession of a screwdriver.


　

　

My Wife's a Celebrity

Today Jane completed a 50Km bicycle ride in aid of Action Medical Research.

Here she is being dispatched by Davina McCall.
That's Ruth, Jane's daughter, on the right.

Here's Jane leading the pack:

Later she was pictured on Meridian Tonight on ITV1.
Will celebrity go to her head?

Some of our friends now owe Jane lots of money!

The bicycles were cleaned, serviced and lubricated by St. Anley Two-Wheel Maintenance.co.uk, which establishment donated time and materials free of charge.

More about Budapest

Somebody asked, "What was the food like?"

First, we thought it wise to avoid this eating-place:

Well, the following evening we found a Greek Taverna, Dionysius, by name.
We ordered a mixed kebab platter to share:

Despite our best efforts we couldn't finish it.

The following day we stopped for lunch at a hostelry on the Buda side of the city:

The waitress was rather pretty:

The beer was VERY good:

Jane, of course insisted on exploring the local shops:

And here she is in Tesco Express:

There is a very fine market:

... where Jane spent our remaining Forints.
Here she is bargaining with a very nice Hungarian man:

"Oh, no," said I, "Not another bag!"

Things not to say at a job interview ...

Thirty-odd years ago I applied for a job.

Back in those days you were expected to hand-write a short letter of application, accompanied by a professional-looking CV. All applications would be acknowledged by the advertiser, even if you were considered a non-starter.
That was an era of courtesy and accepted protocol.

Now, I say, ‘a job’, but this was to be a professional partnership that would involve my domestic translocation.

For this particular position I was adequately qualified and had suitable experience. I had rehearsed my responses to anticipated questions at the interview I hoped to be offered. I even had some naïve political views that I was prepared to share and justify.

The interview was going well, and my well-practised responses to the interviewers’ delving enquiries regarding professional aspects of the position seemed to meet with approval. I began to relax.

Then we came to, “… and how would you go about integrating with the local society?”
Now, I hadn’t practised this one.
Hobbies and pastimes would have been OK, but ‘social integration’?!

“I would probably attend Church,” I offered, rather too hastily.

(Now, bear in mind I am referring to a bygone age when it was entirely PC to advertise: “Christian practice requires someone of similar views …” So-worded had been this advertisement. We all knew that in reality that meant “British, white and middle class.” Applicants were expected to lie!)

My response was met with warm smiles that perhaps belied some circumspection on the part of my interviewers, who appeared to be wringing their hands rather nervously.

“Anything else?” one of them asked.
I paused.
Should I tell them about my passion for steam engines?
What about philately?
Do I tell them that I am a competent bicycle maintenance person?

“Yes,” I replied after thinking for a while; “I like folk music so I intend to seek out any local folk clubs.”

The silence, after a sharp intake of breath, in unison, was palpable.
The four members of the interviewing panel exchanged enigmatic glances. The corporate hand-wringing became more obvious, and I am sure that one of them kicked her neighbour under the desk that separated me from them.

“Fine, kindly leave us to consider for a few moments.”
I was ushered into the ante-room of the WC.

Within seconds the practice secretary was despatched to convey the outcome.
I think she smiled as she said to me, “I am terribly sorry …”

I rarely attended Church after that.
I still like folk music.

An Interesting Journey on the 700 Bus ...

I took the bus yesterday evening.
You know I like buses.

There was a young man travelling, who clearly had Tourtette syndrome.
He expleted loudly, and repetitively, very rude words of a sexual nature.

Most of my fellow travellers just looked out of the window, reluctant to make eye-contact.

Between Chichester and Bognor, just before the Royal Oak, (that’s the pink pub,) a lady rose from her seat and approached the driver.
“Will you please get this man off the bus,” she said, “He is using obscene and offensive language. He said that he wants to stroke my …”
(Actually, he did say that; I heard!)
In silence, the driver simply responded by pointing to a notice that read as follows:

“Do not stand forward of this sign.”
“Do not distract the driver while the bus is in motion.”


The lady continued her exhortation with increasing vehemence.
The Tourette sufferer, remaining in his seat, responded at a competitive volume.
The driver drove on.

Nobody had pressed the bell for the bus to stop just beyond the Royal Oak.
Nobody had hailed it from the roadside.
The driver stopped his bus ...

“Now,” said the lady, “Will you remove this disgusting person?”

“No,” said the driver, “This is where YOU get off!”

Well done, Driver!

A Seasonal Story #3

Christmas Day at last!

In Dulce Jubilo and Sussex Carol by dogsbody

"God bless us, one and all!"

A Seasonal Story #2

To continue ...

Owing to my incontinent messages on ‘facebook’, Jane had already discovered my impulsive purchase via a third party.
I survived, and the arrival of the parcel came as no surprise to her.

The parcel looked thus:

‘C’, my vendor, had advised that I allow the concertina to warm up in the house for an hour or so before trying to play it, so I had a beer while I admired the packaging.

I took my time unwrapping it, in mounting anticipation.

Excitement heightened.

“Slow down!” said Jane, so I had another beer.

I took more photographs of the process, because I love bubble-wrap.

Removing the bubble-wrap was rather like clearing the membranes from a new-born lamb.

Eventually this beautiful instrument was delivered into my world.

An hour had not yet passed so, in order not to disregard ‘C’’s prudent advice, I had another beer.
“Slow down!” screamed Jane.
This time she was referring to my consumption of beer.

The hour passed, oh so slowly.
The magic moment came.
I removed the elastic band that ‘C’ had wisely applied in order to keep the bellows compressed while in transit.
I touched, felt and gently caressed my new baby with all the tenderness of a loving father.

I couldn’t wait any longer … I tentatively pressed one of those friendly metal buttons and began to extend the bellows.
A note sounded.
Ah, bliss! It had the musical texture of polished silver that will ever remain in my memory.

“STOP!” cried Jane.
“Now wrap it up again, put some festive wrapping paper round it and put it under the Christmas tree. You are not having that until Christmas Day!”

“B-b-b-but …” I tried to say through my tears of joy.

“OK, I’ll have another beer!”

A Seasonal Story ...

Now here’s an encouraging tale.

A couple of weeks ago, drinking beer while Jane was out, I decided to revisit an on-line auction site and search for ‘English concertina’.
This came up, and aroused my interest.

The seller’s information demonstrated that he clearly had significant knowledge of concertinas, but I was a little concerned that he indicated ‘no returns accepted’. We exchanged messages about this policy and I was reassured that if we mutually agreed that the item was not 'as described', then a full refund would be forthcoming.
He also recommended another couple of more expensive instruments that he had in stock.

The end-time for the auction was an hour away, and, so far, he had no bidders.
I went and poured a beer.
I studied the pictures again.
I re-read and remained impressed by the extensive description.
I had another beer.
With five minutes to go before the auction ended I entered a bid at the reserve price, but poured another beer before hitting ‘submit’.

Within seconds I received an email: “Congratulations, you’ve won!”
“Whoops!” I thought, “How do I explain this to Jane?!”
I had another beer and went to bed.

The following day the vendor and I exchanged courteous phone calls and emails regarding payment, dispatch and delivery.
“Yes, Tuesday next week will be fine,” said I, mistakenly believing that Jane would be out.

Then came the second phase of UK’s big freeze in the current winter.
All transport was disrupted.

We spoke again.
If the couriers were unable to move the parcel containing a valuable antique then it was likely to remain in a freezing warehouse (minus 14deg.C) until they resumed service after the New Year.
‘C’, who by now had become a friend, kindly offered to retrieve the package from his local depot, BUT it was 4.45pm!
“Let it be,” I said. “If it suffers irredeemably from hypothermia, I will regard that as ‘damage in transit’, and you can claim on your insurance!”

I remained at home all day on Tuesday.
Morning came and went.
The postman managed to deliver the customary vast quantity of unsolicited rubbish, but my organic veggie-box failed to materialise.
Neighbours dropped in greeting cards.
I was slightly cheered thereby.
In the afternoon the doorbell rang.
I excitedly opened the front door ...
and invited a couple of doorstep evangelists in for tea.
They looked very cold!
I explained my anxious state as I poured Earl Grey with lemon slices.
They were most comforting, but my neo-Darwinian philosophy excluded me from salvation.
They left.
I wept into my beer.

I settled down in my state of dejection in front of my warming log fire.
I drank more beer.

Then, oh joy!
The doorbell positively chimed.
I stumbled to open the door.
There stood a jolly, ruddy-faced gentleman sporting a long white beard, and clad in a warm red coat and hat, both of which were trimmed with white fur.
He confirmed that my name corresponded with that on the large parcel he bore.
I plied him with a mince pie and a drop of whisky.
“Ho, ho, ho,” he exclaimed with an approving ascending vocal inflexion.
“Hic …!” I responded.

I peered beyond his portly frame into the road.
There was parked an illuminated snow-mobile tethered to six manificent ungulates, the lead of which sported a magnificent red nose.

“Come back, doorstep evangelists!” I cried.
“I AM A BELIEVER!”

There are several morals to this tale:

• Santa Claus does exist.
• Doorstep evangelists are nice people.
• Never look at eBay while imbibing alcohol!

Tracey, The Underground Pig and The Ferret ...

I have an idea!
I confess it has been inspired by a comedienne’s spot on Rob Bryson’s programme on BBC2 this evening.

Do you receive ‘cold calls’ on the telephone?
You know the sort of thing ...

“Hello, my name is Tracey. I am calling on behalf of ‘The Subterranean Porcine Detection Company'."

"Do you have an underground pig?”
(Apologies to my friend, OSM.)

Now, here’s the strategic response ...
“Hello, Tracey, how nice to here from you!”
You remember Tracey, she looks like this …



You continue thus ...
“Before I answer that question I need you to respond to a few security questions, is that OK?”

Tracey, somewhat taken from behind, says, “Yes.”
(Silly girl!)
“Please tell me your mother’s second cousin’s maiden name?” you ask.
Tracey responds with an answer that may, or may not, be accurate.
You don’t really care!

“Fine,” you say and continue, “And what is the name of your pet ferret?”
“But I haven’t got a ferret!” says Tracey.
“Correct!” you say in a congratulatory tone.

“Now, I need you to tell me the 75th letter/digit of your password.”
Tracey chooses some arbitrary alpha-numeric character.
“Right!” you say, “You are successfully logged in to your account.”

Tracey - "What account?"
You - "The database of time-wasting call-centre personnel with delightful telephone voices who stimulate my imagination."
Tracey - "Oh!"

Then …
“Will you have sex with me tonight?” you enquire.

Tracey puts down the phone.
She has not made a sale.
The pig remains underground ...
and it costs you nothing not to have sex tonight!

Life is ever thus!