Lots of moons ago when I was just a teenager, I went on a boating holiday with my mum, dad, aunt, uncle, two cousins - both younger than me, and our two dogs.
As you might imagine I was feeling very much the 'odd one out' and although I loved being on holiday pootling along the Shropshire Union Canal in a gorgeous old narrow boat, there were a fair few times when I felt rather down and bored.
My mum noticed this and asked if there was anything that could help cheer me up, and I replied that I'd like to be left alone for an evening so that I could play my records and read without being interrupted by everyone.
And so a couple of evenings later, I got to stay alone on the boat while everyone else trundled off for a meal in the nearby village.
My mum knew I loved Babycham and had sneaked me a six pack and some cocktail cherries, and after I'd eaten I took a couple of bottles, my portable record player and copy of Pink Floyd's 'Collection of Great Dance Songs' up onto the roof of the boat.
It was a perfect summer's evening. The boat was moored on the side of a hill which we'd reached via an aqueduct, behind me was the crest of the hill, and in front of me was a miles of countryside surrounding the village of Nantwich.
On the hill were a couple of trees and a small herd of sheep, to either side the canal curved around the hill, and I felt like the only person left on earth as the sun began to set in front of me.
Pink Floyd played on, the sun glowed red and gold before leaving the sky covered with a myriad of stars vying for attention with the dots of lights from the village and surrounds.
It was an absolutely perfect moment, and whenever I feel stressed I take myself back there in my mind.

And I bet you can guess what I'm about to ask you, don't you?
Yep.
Have you had an 'Absolutely Perfect Moment' in your life, and if so, what was it?
If you haven't had one, I hope you find one asap, maybe even this weekend!.
So until Monday, tootle-pips, and if anybody wants me I'll be off in my dreams somewhere.

If anyone out there ever pays any attention to the latest fashion, they might have noticed that for some bizarre reason, 80s stuff is back in.
I know that everything comes back in style after twenty years, but I was hoping that the 80s might get overlooked and we could stay in the 70s revival a bit longer*
There wasn't much I liked about the 80s and the clothes were particularly vile in my opinion. Everywhere you looked there were women wearing shoulder pads that made them look as though they'd been doing the wrong exercises at the gym, and the clothes were so garish a clown would fit right in at a party.
And now, once more, shops are full of strangely-shaped skirts in shades of day-glo yellow, and acid green, and I don't like it one iota.
One item I espied the other day brought back some particularly nasty memories. It was a tight, white, leather skirt with the hem finishing just below the knees rendering anyone who was daft enough to wear it unable to walk without shuffling along like a Geisha. And it brought back bad memories because I had one just like it.
One evening I decided to wear it to a party near Strand on the Green. I foolishly teemed it with a pair of red stilettos which meant that walking was something to concentrate on if I didn't want to fall over.
My friend and I caught a bus that got us about quarter of a mile from where we wanted to be, and as it was a gorgeous evening we decided to take the scenic route, and walk along the bank of the Thames.
We were making good time until a rather large Alsatian bounded towards us. A hundred yards or so behind was its owner calling him back, but the dog was not listening.
Instead it came right up to me and began sniffing.
Next thing I knew it had its nose up my skirt and I was in peril of toppling off my high heels. I managed to stand until the fucking thing bastard dog decided it was bored with that and decided to try shagging me instead.
I screamed so loudly that some people walking along the road came over to see what was going on, only to find me on the ground trying to get away while my friend was bent over laughing hysterically.
After what seemed an eternity, the dog's owner finally managed to get the beast off me and my friend managed to stop laughing long enough to see if I was alright.
I think I whimpered when I saw that tight, white, leather hobble skirt in the window, and it took me some time to relax when I saw an Alsatian after as well.

*Say, the next forty or so years.

Hip-hip, hooray! It's Double Entendre Day again, woohoo!

And I know you're all gagging to get to stuffing my box, so this week I've found a nice picture of a pussy to get your juices flowing!

Here you go -



If that doesn't get you filling my box, then nothing will.

A cocktail cherry for every comment, and a slow, comfortable screw against the wall for the person who gets me a 69!

So...

Get.

In.

There.

NOW!

On Display.

Regular readers will have probably realized by now that one of my hobbies is to dress up as a Viking and hit people with a spear about once a month.
I don't do this on my own though, I'm part of a re-enactment society comprised of other like-minded folk, although about half of them are Saxons, not Vikings.
Usually we get together every few weeks and take over a village hall with a nearby pub, and spend the Saturday of the weekend skirmishing in nearby woods until we're knackered, then round the day off with a banquet. All most excellent fun!
But on occasion we get asked to do Public Displays.
Mostly these are held at Open Air Museums, Castles or similar, and apart from the endless questions from the public and only being allowed to fight in an arena, they're generally excellent fun, especially as we can 'plan' our fights.
My favourite time was when I had to pretend to be a helpless Saxon girl and get captured by the nasty, raiding Vikings. I was being guarded so that I wouldn't escape but then the chap guarding me had an idea and very quietly told me what it was.
A minute or so later, just as the fighting was nearly over, I pretended to knee him hard in the 'family jewels' then legged it as fast as I could back 'home' while he writhed in agony on the ground and the rest of the Vikings cursed and ranted.
The audience of course, loved it. I'm not sure why, but they always seem to like it when a 'girly' wins a fight.
One occasion found us doing a display at the London Olympia, and as I lived the nearest and had crash space, about 10 Vikings and Saxons stayed over at mine the night before. We decided to get into costume before we set off as we weren't sure if there would be anywhere to change once we got there, and there were plenty of twitching curtains the following morning as my neighbours were treated to the sight of a gang of Vikings and Saxons loading up cars and vans with various pieces of armour.
Another time though was rather different as we were asked if we could go along to a Role Playing/War Gaming event at a famous hexagonal building not too far away from London.
Instead of being outside in a field where we could set up camp where we could do crafty stuff, make things and maybe even cook, we were relegated to a 'stall' in a corridor.
The only highlight of the day was when we got to do a 'Fashion Parade' followed by a small fight.
One of the members did the commentary and explained costume, weapons and armour being worn by the other members as they did their turn on the 'catwalk', and last but not least it was the turn of me and another girl to strut our stuff.
We both nearly collapsed in fits of laughter when the compere announced to the audience, "For all you War Gamers out there, these are 'women'. Take a good look as you probably won't see anymore for another year or so!"
Then it was time for the fight.
It was the usual Vikings vs Saxons, and the chaps on both sides hammed it up spectacularly showing off their weapons and chain mail to best effect until it the last persons standing were myself and a Saxon who was covered in mail, and armed with spear, shield and sword to boot.
All I had was Mr Pointy, my trusty spear, and for a moment I thought I was a gonner.
The Saxon raised his spear and shield, gave an almighty bellow and charged towards me...
So quick as a very, very fast thing on crack, I lifted my spear and to my joy he ran straight onto it.
The crowds roared as he fell to the ground in the death throws and cheered even more as I raised the spear and finished him off with a thrust and twist to his stomach.
For some strange reason we got a lot more visitors to our 'stall' after that.
Which was nice.
Oh, and is anyone from that hexagonal building is reading this, we were not responsible for putting pieces of smoked herring into the gaps in the radiators, honest.

I was talking to friends on Saturday about the strangest accident or near miss we've ever experienced whilst travelling.
One of my friends was cycling when she was hit on the head by a frozen fish, which is certainly not an everyday occurrence in anybody's book.
For my own part, I was nearly hit by a giant teacup whilst driving out to Heathrow airport one fine day. I was behind one of those large lorries containing a fairground ride when the teacup nearest to the back broke loose from its restraints and threatened to drop into the road, or possibly on me. The lorry driver was oblivious to what was going on and it took myself and a couple of other car drivers to alert him to the problem.
That would have made an interesting insurance claim, eh?
But my favourite was a genuine insurance claim made by another friend.
It stated "I was driving around a roundabout when I was hit by a boat travelling in the opposite direction"
I'm not kidding.
Have any of you had 'interesting things' happen to them whilst out in the big, wide world?

Oh, and don't forget to tell me all about your weekends and list your choice for tomorrow's entertainment, the options for which are -

• On Display
• On Display
• On Display

Choose wisely my cherubs, have a wonderful Monday, and may the deity of your choice bring you luck.

And so the weekend beckons once more, but alas, this time I have no plans to go and hit people with Mr Pointy.
Which is sad.
But I have got something to remind me of the good times thanks to my dear friend, the lovely Coralee who made some magic with a couple of my pix, and came up with this -
(Clicky piccy for biggerness)
I think it's absolutely brilliant!
Thanks again, Coralee :-D X

Anyways, if any of you lot out there are looking for a spot of excitement and getting away from the mundane for a while, you might want to check out this advert for a cruise with a difference.
If you want something to pass the time while waiting for work to finish, check out this, this, this, this and this. Oh, and this as well.

And for something for you to get your brains moving a bit, I've decided on another 'How Many Uses Can You Think Of For An Ordinary Household Object?' thingies.
If you haven't played before, the object of the game is that I give you an item to think about, say a brick for example. Then you have to come up with as many different ways of using it such as - a match striker, a paperweight, an offensive weapon and so on.
Simples, eh?
So, your object to ponder about is -
A toothbrush.

So, without further ado, get to it!
And please have a fabulous weekend if possible!

ttfn,

Outside my window it's grey and damp, which is not the sort of weather I ordered so I'm resorting to playing 'Anywhere But Here' so I can at least get some imaginary sunshine.

I'm lying on a little beach in Portugal just outside the town of Albufeira where earlier in the day I spent a while wandering around the old part with it's narrow streets and whitewashed houses overlooking the sea and the rest of town. There I found a cafe as yet mostly undiscovered by tourists where I had a simple lunch of garlic soup, bread and fresh grilled 'sardinhas'
The beach is all golden sand reaching down from a rocky outcrop that provides shade if required. The outcrop carries on into the sea and creates a tiny 'harbour' which is perfect to swim in or just bob about on a lilo without fear of being swept out to sea.
Nearby are a plethora of rock pools to explore which contain colonies of sealife to photograph, and the sands are encrusted with fabulous shells coloured with all spectrums of the rainbow just waiting to be gathered.
It's late in the afternoon and soon the local fisherman will be returning to their village, their boats brimming with fresh fish and seafood which they deliver to a restaurant on the next beach.
There you can sit on a terrace overlooking the sea while dining on your choice of goodies straight off the boats, or savour some of the local delicacies such as 'Cozido à Portuguesa', 'Bife à Poruguêsa' or perhaps a 'Cataplana', washed down with a chilled bottle of Vinho Verde and a glass of local almond liqueur to finish with.
After dinner I'll go for a walk along 'my beach' again to watch the sunset before heading back to my rented villa for a good night's rest before getting up for another day's mooching, and beach combing.
If only I could find a pair of magic shoes to click together three times whilst saying 'There's no place like Albufeira'...

So, where's your 'Anywhere But Here'?

And so, as is the usual caboodle, being Wednesday it is time for this week's Caption Competition.

It is also that time of the week where it is traditional to slip your biggest entendre to your local MP/Chief of Police/King of the Fairies, so without further ado I suggest you get on down and get to filling my box until it's fit to burst.

Your photo to help get'cha brains into smut mode full-on caption-making action is -
I can hear your brains ticking from here...!

So without further preamble, get stuck in!
There's a packet of crisps going for every entry, and a can of Stella available when I get me that very long awaited 69.

And you're still here why...?

Lump

I don't like finding unidentified lumps on my body, and I don't think many other people do either.
Over the years I've had quite a few lumps turn up, and each one of them has led to 'ick' and while not exactly 'woe', a fair bit of unpleasantness to say the least.
The first lump to cause me grief was in my left armpit. One day I found a little pea sized lump that didn't appear to be attached to anything, but being sensible I went to get it checked out just in case.
The doctor diagnozed it as just 'one of those lumps' and assured it was totally benign, as it shouldn't cause any problems, but to get back to them if I noticed any changes.
A year or so later I noticed some changes in that overnight it had quadrupled in size and was very red and sore. Sadly I noticed it late on a Friday evening which meant I had to wait until Monday morning to get to the docs, and by then it was even bigger and just moving my arm caused me to yelp.
Come Monday morning I asked my dad to call work for me to let them know I wouldn't be in and headed off to the surgery to be first in line when it opened. I didn't have an appointment, but I was that worried I'd have waited all day if needs had been.
Luckily a doctor arrived early and was able to squeeze me in, and after prodding the lump a bit and asking a few questions, informed me that I had an abscess in my armpit.
There wasn't much I could do about it other than to apply a poultice to it three times a day, and wait until it came to a head, and when it did to go back to them so they could drain it.
All I could do after that was to wait.
I could barely move my arm so was unable to go back to work, and spent the rest of the week mooching around and changing my poultice, until at last, at about 2pm on Friday, it came to a head.
By then it was huge; about the size of a golf ball, and very red and now accessorized by a delightful yellowy-green head which set it off delightfully.
I rang the surgery and by the time I arrived they were ready to drain it.
I changed into a robe, lay back on a bed that was covered in paper and slowly managed to raise my arm above my head so that my armpit was accessible, and then a doctor tried to give me a painkilling injection with a very long needle.
After they managed to coax me back onto the table from off the top of the cupboards, they tried again and eventually they managed to get enough drugs into me to numb the area little.
Then the doctor got a scalpel.
A split second later the world turned yellow as pus spurted out, hitting the doctor and the nurse next to her as it did.
I managed to grab a paper towel to cover my hair and face, but my gown was covered in the foul smelling gunk.
When the flow of pus slowed a tad, the doctor and nurse wiped themselves down and inspected the hole left by the fluid.
Alas, there was still quite a lot left behind which meant they had to try and squeeze the remainder out.
As the doc squeezed, another torrent of pus spurted out, and screaming in pain I accidentally kicked the poor nurse who had decided to stand out of the way after the previous attempt.
Eventually, with the help of two more shots of painkiller, a syringe, and a lot of paper towels, they managed to get all the pus out leaving a hole that was surprisingly small considering the amount of ick that had come out.
A few more bandages, poultices and a course of antibiotics later, I was fine, but ever since then I've had every lump checked asap.
One really big lump on my left breast called for more surgery, and again, it was totally benign (huzzah!) and after I was discharged I went back home to recuperate.
One night, about a week after my release, I'd just had a bath and was checking the stitches when I noticed yet another angry red lump. With the help of a mirror (it was on the underside) I recognized it as another abscess and went to get some antiseptic cream to rub on.
I swear I rubbed the cream on really gently, but next thing I felt was a sort of 'pop' from the lump and a warm feeling like something trickling.
Grabbing the mirror again I looked to see that the abscess must have just come to a head, which I'd caught as I rubbed the cream in.
It didn't seem that big so I decided to get some tissues and give it a little squeeze to see what came out.
What came out was another torrent of foul-smelling, yellowy-green ick.
It went everywhere.
All over me, the bed clothes, the bedside table and my dressing gown before I managed to get enough tissues to stanch the flow.
After it had stopped I braved myself to have another look, and I so wish I hadn't.
There was a hole there the size of a marble, and it was then that I threw up before passing out.
I didn't have the strength to clean up the gunk that night so after I washed myself, I bandaged up the hole and spent the night in the spare room with a packet of painkillers and an economy sized box of tissues just in case.
Another couple of years passed by before I found the next lump. This one was on my right breast and felt different to the one I'd had in my armpit, so once again I went to the docs to get it checked out.
This time they sent me to a hostipal for a needle biopsy, which for someone who does not like needles one iota, rather nail-biting to say the least.
But the doctor looking after me there assured me that it was unlikely to be anything sinister, and to try not to worry until the results came back.
The next week they called me back to have a chat and tell me what they'd found and so one afternoon found me sitting on a couch in a cubicle wearing another delightful hospital gown.
The doctor who'd been looking after me was away and a nurse asked me if I'd mind having some medical students watch while the doctor examined me and so.
I realized then that it was extremely unlikely that bad news was coming, so I agreed and shortly after a doctor came in holding a clipboard and followed by a gaggle of students.
He looked at my notes, then asked me to show him the lump which he pointed out to the students before giving it a prod.
He then asked how old I was and I replied that I was twenty four, and then in a booming voice he told me that the needle biopsy had confirmed that it was not cancerous, but was just 'a lump of gristle', before patronizingly patting my hand and giving me the sort of smile reserved for idiots.
He was about to leave when I called out and asked,
"By 'lump of gristle', do you mean a piece of bacon, or a Fibroadenoma?"
The students all tried to smother their giggles as the doctor stormed off without giving me an answer.
No 'ick' involved, just a tad of 'Yay' for me getting one-up on snotty, patronizing doctors.

There have been other lumps, and fortunately none of them have been anything sinister, but I still get them checked asap.
As my GP told me, she'd rather spend ten minutes making sure it's 'just a lump', than to spend a year treeting a cancer that could be terminal.
So if anyone has a strange lump, get it checked asap, akay?

G'day me darlin's! And I hope this Monday finds you all bright eyed and bushy tailed, as (apart from a couple of bruises and aching muscles) I almost am!

I had a brilliant weekend which involved lots of scampering around and 'killing people' on Dartmoor with Mr Pointy, taking shedloads of Clickage which I am intending to sort and upload during the course of today, invading Tavistock, tasting some scrummy local ales (and relaxing with an Otter) scoffing excellent food at the Saturday night banquet, munching through even more delicious nosh in the form of a full-on Sunday roast in a pub in the middle of the moors, being as close as I could get to an emergency helicopter as I could while it landed and took off again, and finding some lizards and my first Amethyst Deceiver.
All in all, a most excellent couple of days, and once again I was sad to leave the peace and quiet of the proper countryside.

And I do hope you all had a good time as well and are going to reveal all while you're down in the comments box placing your choice for tomorrow's tale of whatever the tale might involve, your options for which are -

• On Display
• Lump

Yep, only the two options this week, but I can assure you they are both scintillating, captivating, interesting, and above all contain plenty of woe, and possibly some 'ick' as well.

And lastly, afore I sign off for today, I have a joke for you thanks to me mate, Nigle.

A man decides to go on a walking holiday on Dartmoor and armed with his OS map, hiking gear and packed lunch sets off to get back to nature. He walks steadily uphill with the aim of viewing one of the biggest tors in the area, passing sheep, ponies and the occasional fellow rambler as he goes.
Suddenly, his reverie is broken by a little voice shouting 'F*ck off, you w&*$er!'
Startled, the man looks all around to see who was swearing at him, but apart from a couple of sheep there's no one to be seen.
He carries on walking and is very soon lost once more in the tranquility.
Once again, he hears a voice, this time deeper and louder, shouting 'You tosser! Just f*ck off will ya, ya f*cking tosser!' and once again he looks all around but can't see anybody there!
This carries on for quite some time and after half an hour the poor chap's in a right state of panic.
At last the man espies another rambler and runs up to him shouting for help.
When he reaches the rambler he explains what's been happening and can he please call the police or something, and is somewhat upset when the rambler simply tells him to gently calm down.
'Why should I calm down?' the man exclaims, 'For all we know there could be a nutter escaped from the prison out there following me!'
'No there isn't mate' replies the rambler, 'It's just the rocks'.
'Rocks? What do you mean, it's the rocks?' asks the man.
'Yeah, the rocks' the rambler says, 'It's a common problem round here. You see they suffer from 'Tor rettes syndrome'.

/coat.

On those Six Degrees of Separation again

Most of you will have heard about the Six Degrees of Separation theory. For those that don't, it means that any person is a lot closer to a person they never thought they'd ever get to meet than they think.
For example; thanks to one person I know, I am only one degree of separation away from Ian Hislop, Paul Merton, Martin Clunes, Neil Morrissey, and Gordon Brown.
This means that I am two degrees away from Caroline Quentin, Amanda Holden, Eddie Izzard, Jeremy Clarkson and Barack Obama.
This leads to being three degrees away from Alan Davies, Simon Cowell, Willem Defoe, Richard Hammond and pretty much anybody else that's famous.
Which is nice.

And now it's your turn.
How many degrees of separation are you from anybody famous? Have you met someone that you already know via other friends that you didn't know knew them?
And I know I keep asking, but is anybody just one degree of separation away from Alan Rickman?

I'm off to hit Saxons in Devon soon, but I'll be thinking of you all while I'm down there, so in return, tell me all and once again I promise that any dark secrets will be safe with me.

Have a lovely weekend, y'all!

tootle-pip,

*mwah*

Picture the scene.

On a London Bendy bus, passengers are all going about their own business; some are going home to cook dinner, others are off to work, one young man is perhaps due to meet the father that abandoned him seventeen years ago and has only now crawled back into his life.
You know.
Ordinary, every day stuff.
At the far end of the bus are a gaggle of young girls giggling and screeching loudly enough to drown out the noise from the shared iPod they're listening to.
A few seats away sits a large, well muscled man of possibly African descent. He sits there as if oblivious to his surroundings and is counting out large amounts of money into separate piles until his concentration is broken by one of the girls knocking his arm as she performs a raucous impersonation of Britney and the man yells angrily at her and threatens to throw her off the bus if she comes near him again.
No one else on the bus so much as looks up to check if the girl is alright and the bus driver continues to drive along the Uxbridge Road.
It draws to a halt at the next stop and another large, well muscled man joins the party. This man however is shorter than the African gentleman and is possibly of Neanderthal descent. He sits on the seat behind the African man who has once more settled down to counting his cash.
All is quiet at the back end of the bus until the Neanderthal chap's phone rings, delighting the rest of the passengers with a tinny rendition of 'Que Sera, Sera' until he answers the call and begins to talk to whomever is on the other end of the conversation.
The Neanderthal talks loudly and this breaks the African chap's concentration for a second time, and this vexes him somewhat.
The African chap stands up and turns around to stare down at the Neanderthal on the seat behind him who continues to talk into his phone.
The African chap glowers menacingly at the Neanderthal and hisses loudly at him to 'Shut the F*ck' up if he doesn't want his arm broken.
The Neanderthal calmly continues to chat while opening his jacket to reveal an incredibly sharp looking eight inch blade, which in another light and setting could have looked quite beautiful.
But in the Neanderthal's possession it looks anything but beautiful and the African gentleman quickly decides to allow the Neanderthal to continue his conversation with all limbs intact.
It is said that if you're bored with London, you're bored with life.
I'm most certainly not bored, but on occasion I'm rather more nervous than I used to be.

So.

It's that time of the week again.

Wednesday, or rather more commonly 'round these 'ere parts, is known as 'Double Entendre Day'.

That means it's time to getcha thinkin' caps on and cogitate and deliberate over the following photograph until you come up with a caption so witty and erudite that the Monty Python Team would feel somewhat inferior as to its impact.

Either that, or just come up with as much as you can in order to stuff my box to capacity.

Got the idea?

Excellent!

So in that case, here's the piccy for this week's Caption Competition -


Five...

Four...

Three...

Two...

One...

Get stuck in then!

*mwha*



PS. There's a choc drop going for every entry, and a Bonio available should I get me a soixante-neuf.

Wine

Quite a few moons ago I went to work in Switzerland for a while over the Summer.
It was a pretty good job waitressing in a hotel and apart from occasions when we were invaded by mad old ladies, it was normally just the same as any other hotel that reminded one of Fawlty Towers.
Misunderstandings due to language were rife as between the staff, five different languages were spoken, the most common one being English as everybody there wanted to learn.
This was a pity for me as I'd mostly gone there to improve my German linguistic skills, but found that Schweizerdeutsch (while was the local lingo) was very different from High German which I was used to speaking.
Add to the mix a smattering of French which was the only way the boss and the Portuguese girl who did the laundry and helped out at the bar could communicate, Austrian spoken by the head chef and waitress*, and Albanian from the sous chef and remainder of the kitchen staff, and you can imagine how many times things could possibly go wrong.
When we weren't being rushed off our feet or keeping guests entertained, we had the use of the TV room which also had a video player and I asked my mother if she'd be so kind as to get me a set of the Fawlty Towers videos so that the rest of the staff could watch them.
They arrived and despite lack of subtitles, everyone on the staff understood all too well what was going on and for the rest of my stay there would be at least one impression of Manuel done per diem.
Unfortunately, the videos also had a negative effect on one occasion.
We'd just watched the episode wherein Basil Fawlty has terrible difficulty in opening a bottle of wine when some guests came in for a very expensive meal with all the trimmings which included a very expensive bottle of wine, the sort that you keep in the best part of the cellar and don't wipe the dust off.
The waitress in charge of the guest's table saw the price of the bottle they'd ordered and froze.
I found her clutching the price list and staring at the bottle while shaking in terror at the thought of everything going wrong as in the video.
Even more unfortunately, apart from the kitchen staff, I was the only other person on duty at the time, so gingerly taking the bottle I went in to bat.
I smiled sweetly as I showed them the bottle and then placed it on the table next to them while I got out my trusty bottle opener.
I then began to open the bottle and was doing just fine until the cork stuck fast.
I'm not sure if I whimpered out loud or not, but as I tugged at the cork I felt all eyes from the party turn on me.
Trying not to panic I said that I was just going to check on something and took the bottle back to the bar to see if anyone could help.
Alas, the only person around was one of the chaps from the kitchen who had only been in Switzerland for a week, and the only language we had in common was to day 'Good day' and 'How are you?' which didn't really help.
He looked at me and mimed a 'What's wrong?' and I mimed back that the bottle was stuck.
He then offered to take the bottle from me and I thought he was simply going to give the opener a good strong tug, but instead he said something in Albanian and gave me a huge smile, before cracking the top off the bottle on the bar.
Granted, he did crack the neck off the bottle in one very clean break, and yes, the cork was now out of the bottle allowing the wine to pour out freely, but I was pretty certain that the guests who were spending about a month of our wages on the bottle wouldn't be too pleased to know that.
He stood there smiling and giving me the 'thumbs up' as the other waitress and the boss came over to see what the noise had been.
I think I was still standing there crying about ten minutes later while the boss managed to sort out the problem and found the guests another bottle of equal value, which she served to the guests herself.
The boss did see the funny side of the events after we showed her the episode of Fawlty Towers, and the new chap in the kitchen got a reprimand translated from German to Albanian and never went near the wine again.


*Two different people, btw.

Wotcha my lovelies, and first of all, Thank Yous all round!

I've spent the weekend reading your comments and emails, doing lots of thinking, far too much spleeping, and yesterday going for a long walk to pick wild damsons with some good friends.
I'm feeling somewhat more 'human' now, and that's mostly thanks to you lot and I'll be replying to the emails and comments asap.

But for now, getting back to what passes for 'normal' round here, it's time for the Monday Choose-O, and your options for this week are -

• On Display
• Wine
• Lump

I trust you will choose wisely and remember that what is written may be misleading as to what's in the story, but I'm sure you've all figured that out by now.

And also, please don't forget to tell me all about your weekends while you're down there.

Again, 'Thank You!' and *hugs*

If anybody wants me I'll be eating wild damsons and mooching around the garden.

Gutenmorgen meine Lieben! And willkommen to another fabulous, Double Entendre Day!

"Is it safe?" you might ask yourselves. Will playing along and slipping an enormous one to your boss lessen or improve your chances of promotion? Would proudly declaring how big yours are to the whole train carriage on your way home tonight end in being involved in an altercation at your local police station?

There's only one way of finding out, and that's to play along with me and fill my box with as much as you can stuff in it. Regular readers should know how to do that by now, but for newbies and readers with the memory capacity of a gnat, the object of the game is to study the photo for today's Caption Competition and then proceed to the comments section below and write down as many captions for the piccy as you possibly can.

Every entry wins a prize, and the person who gets me a 69, gets a goldfish, woohoo!

So, without any further preamble, here's your photo -

Ready?

Set?

Over to you then.

Bike.

On my eighteenth birthday, I received a bicycle. My father had asked me what I would like and I replied that the very nice looking, white-with-green-trim, four speed, ladies bike with sit-up-and-beg handlebars, basket on the front, and bell, book and candle and freebie safety lock thrown in, would be something I'd love and treasure.

Some years later, I still have my white-with-green-trim-w/basket-and-bells-and-lots-of-things-to-make-it-look-good bike, but right now, it is having a sabbatical in the garage.

The reasons for its sabbatical are these.

First of all was the trouble the bloody thing got me into during our first year together.
I named the contraption 'Marchant' for no other reason than I share a publisher that knows why, and at first our relationship was good.
I loved the freedom that leaping on Marchant gave me, and together we would nip to the shops, explore the locale, and on one evening we headed west to meet some friends at a pub in East Hanwell West Ealing.
The evening was good fun, and although I'd only meant to stay for the one drink, my friends persuaded me to partake of a couple or so more drinks than I'd planned on imbibing, and at the end of the evening I was in no fit state to get onto Marchant, let alone ride him back home.
I asked the bar staff if they would be so kind as to look after Marchant until the following day when I would be sober enough to get us both back in one piece, and they very nicely said 'yes, they would'.
The next day I drank went into work via London Transport and as soon as I got home, I changed and set off to reclaim Marchant.
Alas, in the pub were some friends I had not seen for about two years who had dropped in on the off-chance of catching me there, and woo... there I was!
Great to see long lost friends, but not so fabulous to have yet another late night which lead to my being incapable of riding home my faithful Marchant.
The following day I went to collect Marchant, only to find that the manager of the pub was desperately short of staff and asked 'could I fill in?' to which I answered 'Yes' and after a very late night was too exhausted to walk let alone ride, and was sent home in a mini-cab, which meant that once again, poor old Marchant was left once again at the pub.
After sevent attempts at trying to be stone cold sober so that I could get my dear old bicycle home again, I ended up being ever so slightly slarmy and in charge of a bicycle while carrying a police officer in the basket so that I could get the bike home at last.
Now.
I know that many of my friends (and that includes other bloggers that I've met) have given their cars names and swear that they have their own distinct personalities to boot. I'm sure that many of you peeps reading this 'ere blog have also given names to your cars, and maybe even boats, motorbikes, and plain old push-bikes, like my Marchant.
And I'll bet that all of you believe that your dear 'inanimate objects that provide transport' also have some sort of 'personality', yes?
Come on, if you just said 'No', you're lying.
I know empirically that some inanimate machines are either possessed, or have somehow acquired a sense of humour.
Over the years, Marchant and I grew to know each other even better, and I'd spend time pampering him with oil on his joints, and air in his tyres before many happy trips around the locale.
But then one summer, things began to go 'not so well'.
I made the mistake of lending Marchant to the 'Ex-Partner-In-Crime' and although the epic made sure that Marchant's tyres were well pumped up and his gears were oiled, the epic did not treat my dear old Marchant as gently as I did.
The first clue I got as to Marchant's displeasure was when he refused to brake while the epic was taking him to a nearby pub.
The epic was simply riding Marchant downhill along a quiet road with the intent of stopping at the pub that was there, but Marchant had other ideas, and despite his being in perfect working order, he refused to stop when the epic applied the brakes, which resulted in Marchant having an ever-so-slightly dented wheel, and epic having an extremely bruised collar bone and 'family jewels' for a fortnight.
I didn't get off without punishment either.
One fine day I had to get to Boot's in West Ealing, and forgetting Marchant's grudge about my lending him to the epic, I made the mistake of taking 'Ye olde faithfule push-bike' rather than the car.
I was alright until I got into the heavier traffic around the main busy shopping area, and aimed towards Boot's.
To get there, I had to either be a good 'road user' and wait for the traffic lights to go green before I headed towards the shop, or, be a tad sneaky and dismount and cross the main road with the pedestrians.
I decided to be sneaky and went to dismount, and that was the last thing I remember until about three minutes later...


According to witnesses, I'd stopped the bike and had put my left leg down on the ground before swinging my right leg over to dismount.
And that was when Marchant had 'Gone For Me'.
Honestly, five witness swore that they'd seen the bicycle move as if on its own accord as if to try and buck me off.
It succeeded in doing so and then it had turned on me in a swivwelly motion, before attacking my left ankle which after the bruises came out had tyre tracks on it.
They also swore that the bike had made as if to 'buck up and land on me', rather like a horse trampling on an unloved rider.
Honestly.
Five witnesses.
All said the same thing.
It was with a heavy heart and much pain that I wheeled Marchant home that day.
I discussed the events with the epic and we decided that 'just to be on the safe side', we'd have a chat with Marchant and apologize.
Marchant is still living in my garage where he's shacked up with a rather sweet racer.
I've taken to walking more recently.
The epic drives me when I need to go shopping, and we're all fine with the situation
And if anybody wants to borrow Marchant, fine by me, just make sure I'm there with my camera set to shiny, akay?

Overheard at the weekend.
The scene, a pub garden in West London.

First woman: "I'm really into astrology an' all that y'know, ever since I was little I've been readin' my horoscopes an so, and it's really in'trestin'. I'm an Aquarius on the cups wiv Pices, and me last boyfriend was a Leo which was why we didn't get on after we 'ad the second baby, but he went off wiv my mate 'oos a Saggitarius and apart from when they're fighting an' that, they get on really well cos they're both fire signs, innit. (turns to a woman at the next table) So wot's your sign then?"

Second woman: "I'm Cancer"

First woman: "Ooh, that means you're really sensitive an' although you put on a tough act you're really soft and loving, and really feel emotions, like, yeah?"

Second woman: "Yes"

First woman: "Yeah, I've got a mate 'oos a Cancer like, but she's on the cups wiv Leo so she's got a right temper on 'er sometimes. (turns to talk to man at the table next to her) So wot are you then?"

Man: "Available!"

Me: (tries desperately to stop lager from pouring out of nose while trying not to burst into uncontrollable laughter)

End scene.
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Moving rapidly on, your Choose-O choices for tomorrow's entertainment are -

• On display
• Bike
• Wine

Remember, titles might be misleading as to actual story content and are liable to settle during transit.

Happy wotsits, y'all! and of course, don't forget to tell me all about your weekends while you're down there, akay?