Thursday, 22 February 2018

The things my elderly mother shouts




My father had a fall last week and I accompanied him to the hospital, along with my 87-year-old mother. The old fella spent 4 hours in the resuscitation area of the Accident and Emergency Department - part of it in a cubicle, most of the time on a trolley in the corridor. My mother and I sat with him, perched on plastic chairs. Contrary to what you might expect, this extended period of waiting was rarely dull.



My lovely mum is hard of hearing and this long-term affliction, together with some short-term-memory loss, can cause confusion and disorientation. When she speaks she tend to shout, presumably as a consequence of her deafness. Also, as she gets older, she seems to be less inhibited about sharing what’s on her mind. While sitting in the crowded Accident and Emergency Department - surrounded by bleeping equipment, suction machines and the night’s ill and bleeding casualties - she announced the following:



  1. ‘LOOKING AT ALL THESE POOR SODS, WE DON’T KNOW HOW LUCKY WE ARE.’



  1. (When an obese nurse walked past and smiled in our direction) ‘GOODNESS, SHE’S A FAT LASS’.



  1. ‘I HOPE THESE CLICKS AND SQUISHING NOISES AREN’T GOING TO CONTINUE ALL NIGHT.’

I inform her that these noises are from emergency equipment that is keeping people alive. On hearing this, she expresses remorse, and says the Holy Trinity while making the sign of the cross.



(Thirty seconds later)  ‘THIS RACKET ISN’T GOING TO GO ON ALL NIGHT, IS IT? WHY DON'T THEY JUST TURN THEM OFF?’




  1. ‘SORRY, I’VE JUST TRUMPED – IT DOESN’T SMELL THOUGH’


5. (On being told that dad hasn't broken any bones and we can all go home, mum stands over dad and says) PICK YOUR FEET UP NEXT TIME, FAT ARSE - WE'RE NOT BRINGING YOU HERE AGAIN'.
    








Photo courtesy of PaulR at FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Friday, 19 January 2018

Life's too short




On the tenth day of a fortnight’s holiday in Tenerife, Mrs Jones and I were flagging. A combination of Spanish sunshine, overeating, hefty consumption of San Miguel lager and late-night revelling at the local Irish bars had left us feeling weary. At 58 years old, we don’t possess the same level of stamina as in our young adulthood. We decided on an early night – not with any intention of rumpy-pumpy, as we were too tired for that nonsense; a sustained 30-seconds of pelvic thrusting was way beyond our capabilities. The (smallish) rational parts of our brains insisted that less alcohol and more sleep would re-energise us for the remainder of the holiday.



So at 8.30pm, rather than bouncing into town, we opted for a quiet drink in our hotel bar as a prelude to bed. Perched on a leather settee, we observed our spacious and opulent surroundings: sparkling chandeliers, sturdy-oak coffee tables, mirrored walls, a bar displaying endless varieties of liqueurs and spirits, and bow-tied waitresses - in white blouses and black skirts - attentive to the needs of their guests. And oh so quiet. People spoke in whispers, as if mindful to not corrupt the sumptuous surrounds. The most noticeable sound was the clicking of stiletto on tile, as a waitress scurried to replenish a glass. Mrs Jones and I sat in silence, sipping our lager nightcaps; the heaviness of our lethargy made speech feel too much of an effort.



But then something remarkable happened.



Very gradually, we grew aware of another noise. An intermittent growling could be heard behind us, and we turned to discover the source. A bald headed man, maybe in his 70s, was slumped in his armchair, a half-full glass of stout on the table in front of him. His eyes were closed, his hands clasped in his lap. At the same table were three vacant chairs, the empty glasses in front of them suggesting recent occupation by his companions prior to their desertion.



We watched him closely. He’d clearly been there a while, as evidenced by the viscous spittle forming at the corners of his mouth. Each inward breath evoked a rasping snore followed by a silent pause, this soundless phase extending over several seconds, sufficiently long to evoke our concerns that the old fella may have expired. It was clear that the waitresses’ thoughts were along similar lines, each covertly monitoring him for signs of life as they cleared neighbouring tables. When the outbreath arrived, we could detect a collective sense of relief in the room.  



I squeezed Mrs Jones’ hand and we turned to face each other. It seemed our minds were reaching a common conclusion.



‘Life’s too short,’ I said.



***



Four hours later we could both be found in Paddy’s Bar, each holding a pint of Caffrey’s, screeching a tuneless rendition of ‘The Wild Rover’.  




Photograph courtesy of Samandale at FreeDigitalPhotos.net         



            


Monday, 11 December 2017

The joys of flying economy class






'Fourteen hours cooped up on a plane sounds like hell,’ said Mrs Jones.



‘I’m sure the time will fly past,’ I said, resorting to tame jokes as a way of getting into the holiday spirit.



We were boarding our flight from the UK to Singapore. I’m not a rich man; our allocated positions were in the economy section in the rear of the aircraft. As the only access point was at the front of the plane, we endured the passage through business class - the expanse of space sufficient to trigger agoraphobia - before reaching our seats, thirty rows of nine, resembling a tightly packed battalion advancing towards the enemy.



After the token welcome by the china-doll air hostesses – all lipstick-crusted smiles and pert rumps – we sat and observed our fellow travellers. Our attentions were drawn to a kerfuffle from six rows in front of us. A middle-aged lady was kicking off because there was no room to store her hand luggage in the locker above her seat; the hostess had placed it a couple of rows down. I leaned in to Mrs Jones and whispered,

‘Crikey! Is she worried a sneak thief will snatch and run while we’re at 40,000 feet?’



Last to take their seats were a Chinese couple, each wearing a surgical mask over their mouths and noses. They looked like they had just been dragged out of the operating theatre, in the midst of removing a gall bladder, but I was reassured to note that neither was wielding a scalpel. Is it worth looking like an utter dipstick in an effort to filter out a few contaminants?



Two hours after take-off, and I’m still struggling to activate my touch-screen entertainment located on the back of the seat in front of me. The damn thing seems defective. As I repeatedly prod the glass monitor, the obese bloke across the aisle decides to stand – to aid his circulation, no doubt – and thrusts his lardy arse in my face. My nostrils detect the lurid combination of blue cheese and old sweat. I consider asking the Chinese fella if I can borrow his mask.



Bored, without any film to watch, I try to sleep. Each time I feel I might be slipping into the land of nod, my journey is halted by a toddler shrieking two rows behind, or a fast-moving hostess wafting past my ear.



Four hours into the journey, a major breakthrough: I discover the handset for my entertainment centre located in the arm of my chair – it wasn’t touchscreen after all. After much random button pressing, I stumble upon a back episode of Friends. I steal a few moments of escapism, smiling at Joey and lusting after Rachel, when I’m jolted from my musings by a whack to the head; the woman occupying the seat in front of me had decided to recline, the thrust back so violent it seemed as if she’d taken a run at it. Worse still, the tilt of my entertainment screen was such that the glare from the cabin lights now rendered it unwatchable.



And then the in-flight meal arrived. The pleasant hostess insisted the woman in front return her seat to the upright so as to grant me sufficient room to eat, and the prostrate figure grunted, exhaled loudly and grudgingly complied. Relishing my additional cubic centimetre of space, I peeled back the foil from my food tray to be confronted with spicy chicken noodles – for breakfast! I ordered a large glass of white wine to try and dampen my growing irritation but, at my second slurp, Zsa Zsa Gabor reclined again, causing spillage – with Chardonnay dripping off my nose, I patted her on the top of her over-lacquered head to ask her to return to the perpendicular, evoking more grimacing and muttering.



Resigned to torture, I spent further hours folded into my seat, neck, back and arse all aching to various degrees, enduring that dreadful mix of discomfort and tedium. The fat man across the aisle belched loudly, his wind deriving from the rapid consumption of five cans of Tiger beer. A young couple a few rows down were delivering a decent – or maybe indecent – rerun of the Jack and Rose sex scene from Titanic, with lots of groping, slurping and audible promises of undying love.



Thirteen hours and forty-nine minutes after take-off, we landed at Singapore airport.



‘That wasn’t so bad after all,’ I said.



Mrs Jones’ expression did not require words.



P.S. I'm currently in the process of selling my house, car and body so we can afford business class on our next long-haul flight.


Photo courtesy of satit_srihin at FreeDigitalPhotos.net       










Wednesday, 13 September 2017

Pondering the imponderable




As I approach my 59th birthday, my troubled mind increasingly dwells on a range of imponderable questions. If you can, please ease my mental anguish by suggesting answers to any of the following:


  1. What possesses some people to pursue a career in chiropody?
Do they have a foot fetish? Or perhaps they harbour masochistic tendencies, relishing the prospect of a life spent on their knees wrestling with foot odour, nail clippings and flaky gunge?


  1. Why are testicles crinkly?
Crinkles add flavour to my packet of salt-and-vinegar crisps/chips, but what do they do for those two orbs swinging – ever lower – between my legs? (Apart from making shaving a precarious activity).


  1. Why does my soap dish not have a hole in the bottom?
It seems obvious, doesn’t it? In the shower, work up a lather, drop soap back in its dish and, by the time you grope for it again, it remains firm, all the excess water having drained away. Instead, when I reach for my bar of Imperial Leather it often feels like I’m dipping my fingers into a frothy cesspool.


  1. Why do doctors in the gastro-intestinal department all have fingers the width of telegraph poles?
Is it an essential requirement of the job of the colon doctor to own a forefinger the size and consistency of a log? Last month, when I suffered the finger-up-the-bum check, it felt as if I’d been sodomised with the serrated trunk of a sturdy oak?


  1. Why do restaurant waiters often wear polyester shirts?
Those fine young men who ferry my ale, wine and Beef Madras to my table do a wonderful job for which I’m eternally grateful. In the course of a typical day they must walk miles to satiate the appetites of their customers. And naturally they sweat a lot. So why in the name of all that’s holy do many opt to wear polyester or nylon shirts? A perspiration-and-plastic combination smells like someone’s been boiling cabbage in a communal latrine.


  1. Why does my willy shrivel during a hospital investigation? 
I’m confident that my wand is, at least, an average size. When I inspect myself in the mirror after my morning shower, (and when I go to the loo, get dressed, go to bed, get up in the morning) it hangs out like a real cool dude. So why when I drop my briefs in front of female nurses during a hospital examination does it get all bashful and recoil into my abdomen, leaving something resembling a desiccated strawberry? 







These are the crucial questions that torment me. Can you please give me respite by providing some answers?




Photos courtesy of :
1. imagerymajestic at FreeDigitalPhotos.net   
2. Nat_Sticker at FreeDigitalPhotos.net






Friday, 7 July 2017

A man's got to know his limitations




I’m good at some things. My Sunday roast propels fellow diners into orgasmic rapture, I’m a more-than-decent public speaker, and the speed of my mental arithmetic makes Sheldon appear mathematically challenged. Nonetheless, it is important to be aware of one’s weaknesses – in the words of Clint Eastwood’s Dirty Harry, ‘A man’s got to know his limitations’.



So here is a list of my limitations. And I’m not referring to the ‘I’m-not-quite-as-strong-at’ sort of deficiencies – no sirree – these are activities where I demonstrate such stunning incompetence that onlookers assume parts of my brain have gone walkabouts.



  1. Opening cereal boxes

Mrs Jones begs me to ask for her help when opening breakfast cereals. By the time I’ve prised off the cellophane wrap from my Kellogg’s cornflakes, I’m in no mood to explore the subtleties of the cardboard re-fastening device on the top of the box. Instead, I assault it from the flank, penetrating it with a forefinger and tearing it open. For its remaining shelf life, it sits bloated with its inners exposed, as if opened by a stick of dynamite.



  1. Singing

I love listening to popular music, but when it comes to singing I’m tone deaf. When I let fly in the shower with my rendition of the Eagles’s Lying Eyes, Mrs Jones cringes, the local authority sees a sharp rise in reported incidents of noise pollution, and the nightingales self-destruct. My attempts at the high notes have even been known to interfere with my neighbours’ Wi-Fi connection.  



  1. DIY

Men are expected to shine in the Do-it-yourself department, delighting their ladies with displays of competence around the home and garden. Not this bloke; I’m utterly useless. I’ve no idea how to rewire a plug (all those colours are so confusing), the prospect of putting up a curtain rail causes me sleepless nights, and my sole contribution to assembling a flat-pack wardrobe from Ikea is checking we’ve received the correct number of nuts and bolts (as I’ve said, I’m great at counting).



My level of ineptitude reached a humiliating high last week. Armed with my brand new hedge trimmer, I strutted into the front garden to prune the bushes. Within ten seconds, I was left holding an impotent machine with a limp six-inches of wire dangling; yep, I’d inadvertently cut through the electric cord and short-circuited the house.

  

  1. Wrapping presents

For 30 years, the task of wrapping Christmas and birthday gifts has usually defaulted to Mrs Jones. She excels at it. Her dressed parcels always display crisp, symmetrical edges, with a skin-tight paper covering, minimal sticky tape, and a decorative bow.



Unfortunately, it wouldn’t seem right to ask Mrs Jones to wrap my gifts to her (although I have considered this option) and I’ve no choice but to do it myself. On these rare occasions, the end product looks as if it presented a moving target, one I didn’t quite catch up with. Excess wrapping paper loiters at each end of the parcel, forming unsightly bulges, and the (half-a-roll of) sticky tape appears to have been applied via a scatter gun with each piece creased and misshapen.    



  1. Drawing and artwork

I can recall sitting in an art lesson as a child and the teacher leaning over my shoulder and whispering, ‘You’re bloody useless, Jones’. That man was a shrewd judge. If I’m denied the use of words, I’m void of all creativity. My attempts at drawing resemble the scribblings of a three-year-old and, if it’s not painting by numbers, the colouring stuff remains in the box.   



  1. Directional sense

When God was giving out internal radars, he must have skipped my name. Either that or he had a sense of humour, and relished the prospect of me groping around the earth in a permanent state of spatial confusion. My sense of direction is dreadful. In a strange town I can enter a building and, when I exit, I often fail to recall which direction I approached from. Many hours have been wasted trying to find my parked the car. And when driving to a specified destination I’ve sometimes, after hours of futile circling, given up and headed for home - that is, of course, if I can find it. 

Thank goodness for the greatest invention of our time: satellite navigation.







Does anyone else care to disclose their ineptitudes?








Tuesday, 6 June 2017

What do doctor's receptionists talk about?




My haemorrhoids are misbehaving again. After completing my morning evacuation, the bathroom porcelain resembles the aftermath of the siege of Leningrad, with sufficient of the red stuff to supply the national blood bank for the next decade. So, reluctantly, I decided to see my doctor.



As per the formal procedure, I rang the health centre at 8.00 am to request an appointment. After noting my name and date of birth, the receptionist found me a slot later that morning. But the conversation was not yet over.



‘I’m now obliged to ask this,’ she said, followed by a short pause. ‘What is the problem that you want to see the doctor about?’



Somewhat taken aback by the intrusiveness of the question, a range of retorts pushed into my mind:

I’ve ruptured my foreskin while engaged in athletic love-making;

I’m farting so much I’m a fire risk when near a naked flame;

I tried on my wife’s bra and the metal wire from the left cup has punctured my lung;

My testicles are hanging so low, when I sit on the toilet they plunge into the water like depth charges.


But I resisted the temptation and, instead, told the truth.



‘I’m bleeding from the arse-hole.’



‘Oh … right … sorry,’ she mumbled. ‘I’m told that I must ask, but it seems … it feels a bit…’



‘It’s OK, no worries,’ I said, starting to feel sorry for the lady’s awkwardness.



***



As I sat in the doctor’s waiting room two hours later, listening for my name to be called, I sensed eyes on me. When I glanced up, there were three female receptionists behind the glass talking and giggling to one another. I wondered which of the trio I’d spoken to earlier on the phone. Was it the young blonde lass, barely out of her teens; her inexperience might have been responsible for the awkwardness? Or was it the older, worldly-wise woman in the middle of the threesome, who seemed to be in charge? Maybe it was the smirking receptionist on the end, whose gaze was fixed in my direction?



And what were they discussing? The weather? What each was planning to eat for lunch? Or whether I was the bloke with rivulets of blood trickling down the crack of his arse? When I arose to see the doctor, I imagined them checking my waiting-room seat for stains.



But I subsequently realised that all my speculations were likely to be groundless. As I was leaving the doctor’s surgery, I overheard another patient - an old lady - standing at the reception window.



‘I need a follow-up appointment with the doctor,’ she announced. ‘I have to let him know whether I’m still leaking yellow goo out of my cherry.’



Clearly, the receptionists hear more spectacular stories than mine.





Photo courtesy of pixtawan at FreeDigitalPhotos.net



   






Thursday, 6 April 2017

The elusive cucumber



‘On your way home, will you stop off at the supermarket for some salad stuff?’ asked Mrs Jones.



My car was in for its annual service so I took the call on my mobile while sitting in the garage waiting area. ‘Yes, sure. What items do we need?’



‘Oh, the usual: lettuce, cucumber, tomatoes and red onions.’



Two hours later I returned home and deposited the contents of my supermarket bag onto the kitchen worktop. Mrs Jones exhaled – audibly – and I detected a roll of the eyes followed by an implosion of her cheeks which, after 36 years together, I knew could mean only one thing: I’d cocked up, big time.



Failure to live up to a wife’s expectation typically means that a man is subjected to a circuitous form of interrogation that is intended to shame and humiliate.



‘Where’s the cucumber?’ she asked, while her foot tapped on the tiled floor, as if delivering a countdown to the moment of my execution.



‘There,’ I said, pointing to the large, cylindrical item in front of us.



‘What makes you think that’s a cucumber?’



‘Well, it looks like a cucumber; it’s dark green, shiny and … … phallic.’



‘It’s much bigger than any phallus I recognise,’ she said, now relishing the role of the strident prosecutor. ‘That is not a cucumber.’



‘What is it then?’



‘It’s a courgette.’



‘A what?’



‘A courgette. A marrow-like vegetable, sometimes referred to as a zucchini.’



‘It looks like a cucumber, so how was I supposed to know?’



‘Maybe the sign over the box in the supermarket that read, COURGETTES, might have given you a clue.’



Mrs Jones, savouring the taste of blood, broadened her onslaught. The tomatoes were insufficiently ripe, the onions partly rotten, and the lettuce much too big and shabby. (I must admit the lettuce resembled the severed, semi-decomposed head of an obese gladiator. Although it could have been worse; I almost brought home a cabbage).    



And to add to my pain, I now recall that I don’t like the taste of courgettes. Something tells me they will be served up with every meal for a week.