In Yoga there's a thing called the 'churning posture' which is pretty much what the name suggests, wherein you drink a pint of warm water and then churn your stomach to deal with constipation.

    But according to this snippet from an advert there is a mechanical alternative.

    =====

    'A stand mixer is a kitchen appliance that uses a motor to rotate the chosen tool (dough hook, whisk, beater, etc) in a bowel. The chosen tool will then mix the ingredients within the bowel in an efficient manner that is often better suited than mixing by hand.'

    Now there's a good reason for never buying a secondhand mixer  ;-)

    Nice to know there's a choice of tools though.

    Gyppo (Still cringing a little at the thought.)

Apparently this display is in an independent bookshop in Wiltshire.  My librarian informant tells me the writer of the other book, 'How To Kill Your Family', saw the meme and immediately emailed the shop, saying "Thankyou very much for the free extra publicity."

This picture.

Left click to enlarge if you haven't seen it before.

My eldest took this picture earlier whilst out and about.  You may need to zoom in, but would you fancy the product on the second line?

   The Flickering Flame.

   I occasionally light a small candle to mark the passing of someone I respected or admired, even if I never met them in everyday life.  Mum used to do this, and it seems I've inherited the habit.

   It's a strange and eclectic collection of people who get this final accolade.

   A while back it was for Mike Hoare, the mercenary leader.  The old bugger lived to be 100, which is a rare thing amongst those who followed his trade.

   Most recently it was for Harry Patterson (Jack Higgins), the writer.  I couldn't help thinking it was also for his regular characters, their slow development over the years suddenly halted.

   As Mum once said, "The old order changeth, always.  And the new have to find their own way.  The light shines in both directions, if you let it."

   Gyppo

January is always a strange month.  They all are in their own ways, but I've lived through enough of them now to realise there's one consistent feature in January.

The first few days seem to crawl by, and then, suddenly it's the middle of the month.  It's as if a whole week has been surgically removed from the calendar.

I've no idea where they hide it, and I doubt very much if I can get a refund.

Gyppo

   What is wrong with the phrase second-hand?  Or refurbished, if it's really true and not just a cosmetic wipe over with an oily rag.

   Nearly all my computers have been secondhand.  I've never owned a brand-new motorcycle.

   When I see adverts for pre-loved washing machines and other domestic appliances I find myself in the same position as female pilots flying inverted.  Its a 'crack up' situation.

   Does anyone really love their appliances?

   I've become rather attached to some long lasting appliances/machines, but love is going a bit far.

   Look at it this way.  If you  marry a widow or divorcee she may well be pre-loved, let's hope she was, but I doubt if you'd use the term.  But you probably wouldn't call her second-hand either.

   Gyppo

Take a book, song, film title, or just an everyday phrase, which makes you pause for thought.

I'll start with the Bruce Lee film, Enter the Dragon.

Strikes me as being a particularly hazardous/unwise enterprise.

     My ex-wife was asthmatic.  She generally managed very well, but occasionally some smells or fumes would trigger a particularly bad attack.

     We were riding my motorbike and sidecar up a steep and very twisty Cornish hill, on a narrow two lane road,  carved between two rock walls with nowhere to pull off.  We slowed to a crawl behind a very smoky lorry.  Suddenly the poor lass was bouncing around on the  seat behind me, desperately trying to get her puffer from the top front pocket of her jacket.

    I slowed down even more to give her a fighting chance, praying she wouldn't drop the thing.  She had the presence of mind to rip off one glove for a better grip and wedged it down the back of my belt for safety.

    Seeing a gap appear between us and the lorry the utter prick in the car behind started beeping his horn and kept trying to pass us.  There was enough traffic coming the other way to make this a very unwise move.

    I head the sound of the puffer, followed by two more quick spurts, and a gasped "I'm okay now, as she leaned back in against me.

    The lorry meanwhile was still belching out black smoke so I dropped even further back.

    Matey behind was going ape with the horn.  So I pulled a trick you can do with really old bikes,  I manually retarded the ignition which let me ride even slower.  With a sidecar you can ride at less than walking pace without worrying about falling over.  We chugged majestically up to the top of the hill, the stinking lorry several yards ahead by now, and an impressive tail of frustrated car drivers behind us ;-)

    When we found a pull-in I stopped and let them all by.  For a few optimistic seconds I thought Matey was going to stop as well and remonstrate with us.  But he thought better of it.

    Gyppo

   Today - 2nd January - simply didn't happen. 

   I got up around seven, knowing damned well that I wasn't really awake, but nature was calling.  I had a drink, took my stay-alive pills, went to the shops because there wasn't enough milk to make porridge, and then came home.

   Spoke to a couple of neighbours I've not seen since last year ;-)  Saw an empty house showing that yet another one had moved away.

   I checked for emails, none, and decided that I felt so dislocated from reality that I might as well go back to bed for a while.  Sometimes my pills do this to me, unless I've a strong motivation to press ahead.

   I got up again a few hours later, still not really with it, and had lunch.  The plan, such as it was,  had been to make bread in the afternoon and restock the freezer.  But the baking spirit wasn't moving me at all, and - total clincher here - there was still a day's bread in hand, so I just lounged around, reading, and fell asleep again.

   One of the glories of being retired from regular work is that you can just go with the flow - more like a slow circular eddy - on days like this.

   By 7 pm I'd caught up with myself, made an evening meal, and now the bread is proving, the mixer put away again, the kitchen is cleaned, and there are still no emails awaiting my attention.

   Sometimes it's enough ;-)

   Gyppo

   02-01-2023

It's an old Hippy saying, which always seems particularly apposite at the start of a New Year.

"Remember, every morning.  Today is the first day of the rest of your life..'

   Hythe Ferry (End of an era, and a handful of memories.)

   I  nearly went on a boat trip today.  Seriously thought about taking the last trip of a local ferry service, which is shutting down on New Year's Eve after running for longer than my lifetime.   The reason cited is the rising cost of diesel and falling passenger numbers.

    But I decided that nostalgia was best left to memories of the original ferry, rather than the rather mundane modern catamaran based 'water bus' which replaced it many years ago.

   We used it to cross to Hythe, to visit my Dad's Mum, who lived there.  Initially in a caravan, and later in a house.  My Uncle Jack helped to build the house, along with several other properties along that street, and I thought it fascinating that he'd built their home.  Jack was a hod-carrier and occasional bricklayer.

     But, back to the Ferry, which was foot passengers only, but always had a few bicycles on board.  (It saved a long loop along the banks.)

   The Hotspsur, which used to ply between Southampton waterfront and Hythe, on the other side of The Solent, was a proper boat, with a 'below decks', and an upper deck where a little boy could run to the front.  (Not allowed or possible on the catamaran.  I could lean over and watch the stubby bow rising and falling against the generally small waves, and revel when an occasional bigger splash surged up through the fancy woven rope fender and sprayed me.

   These 'rainbows dancing o'er the bows'  were magical things whenever the sunlight was just right..

   Mum would hover nearby and probably worried I'd fall in.  But in reality the sides were too high for a little lad to get over without major effort.  And even as a small child I wasn't stupid.  Imprudent on occasion, but not stupid.

   The crew, who were generally large and slightly scary looking men to a little lad, gruffly chivvied me away if I got too close to the gaps in the sides where the ropes for the mooring bollards were located.

   At the bow end and the rounded stern there were 'Carley Floats,' wooden life rafts  which were clamped to the deck,  Ready to be released by a crewman if the boat sank.  With rope loops along the sides and thickly varnished wooden slats.  Inside the wooden framework was something buoyant, possibly a big slab of cork back in those days.

   Memory tells me each float had a little plaque which claimed it could support 16 people, but I wouldn't swear to that number now.

   Dad said that in the Royal Navy the floats were known to support far more men than the nominal rating, and could save the lives of a 'whole parcel of men, in the water, but holding onto the ropes until help came'.  He knew about this stuff from practical wartime experience.

   The floats generally served as seats, and on a sunny day Mum would sometimes serve up a little picnic during the crossing.

   There  was an inside cabin, where people would huddle when the weather was bad, and sometimes it was rough as hell out there on that short crossing, and the stubby little boat would bounce around and roll quite alarmingly.

   The crossing was generally protected by the land on either side, but occasionally the wind and waves would funnel along the gap and things grew 'interesting'.  It never seemed to bother the crew, although I believe crossings were sometimes cancelled if it was deemed too rough,  Just as with the larger ferries on the longer Isle of Wight crossing.

   There was a plaque screwed to one of the walls which read, 'This vessel is licensed to ply only in smooth waters.'  Looking back I assume there is a legal wave height or wind speed when smooth ends and 'troubled' begins.

   Sticking out to one side of the captain's bridge house there was one of those spinning devices, an anemometer, with four cups which measured wind speed.  It fascinated me.

   There was also a proper 'below decks' down a steep ladder where Mum hated to go.  She came down a couple of times to keep me company, and to make sure there was nothing to hurt me, but after that she stayed 'above'.

   My claustrophobia hadn't kicked in at that age.

   It was a fascinating place,  The inside of the hull was covered with thick paint, and I could see all the metal framework, steel plates,  and the massive rivets holding it together.  I loved being able to see how the thing was put together.  The deck down there was covered with some thick non-slip stuff which felt like tarmac.

   There were long bench seats bolted to the curving walls, and a sturdy rail down the centreline so that standing passengers had something to hold onto.

   By scrambling up onto the wooden seats I could just about see through the sometimes smeary portholes.  These were fascinating in their own right, held shut with massive brass wing nuts as big across as the spread out fingers of my little boy hands.

   If the boat was swaying a bit the portholes would periodically dip under water, and I was fascinated how green it looked when the sun was shining through.  Almost black on cloudy days.

   One day I saw a perfect picture, the green waters sliding past halfway up the porthole glass, and a big seagull hovering against the sky.  (If I was an artist I could probably still paint that scene from memory, it's still so clear, sixty plus years later.)

   I remember Mum came down to check I was okay one day when  she saw a 'rather furtive' man follow me down into the otherwise empty lower deck.

    He was talking to me and I didn't like him at all.  He may have been harmless, but when Mum appeared, looking a bit 'berserker pale', with her grey eyes stormy, he quickly slunk back back up on deck.  Looking back, and comparing it with other occasions when I felt similarly uneasy, I think this may well have been a near encounter with 'the dark side'.

   =====

   When we reached the other side of the water the trip was a  long way from over.  There was, and still is, a long pier, and a little electric train to take us to the land.  Inside were wooden slatted seats, once again thickly varnished like the Carley Floats.  Sometimes we walked, footsteps drumming on the planks, and other times we rode.  I have a feeling Mum didn't like the confines of the little train, except when it was raining.

   Occasionally we would see Uncle Jack, on a rare day off from labouring, fishing off the pier.  He never seemed to catch anything except the occasional small harbour crabs, and I've long suspected that a real fish would have spoiled the peace and quiet of his day out.  Sometimes we'd recognise his fishing rod, tied to the pier railings, next to his folding chair, but Jack wasn't there.

   Dad always reckoned that those were the times he was either in the pub, having 'a leisurely half', or going about 'some other business'.  Dad always suspected Jack visited a local woman occasionally on his 'fishing days'.  Their mother, an obsessively religious woman, would have been horrified.  But from an adult perspective I suspect she simply 'chose not to  know'.  She unbent just a little in her old age.

   As I got older I sometimes used to race the little train.  It wasn't fast, and with a few yards start, and nearly busting a gut, I could keep pace with it provided no-one walking on the pier got in the way.

   =====

   There is one other  story connected with that ferry.  I was there but too young to remember it personally.  But it became part of the family legends and I heard it retold often enough that I can picture it. as if I was watching...

   Mum and Dad had a bright magenta tandem, with a kiddy seat on the back.  Facing forward so I could see where we were going.  Mum said it was a proper racing tandem, with dropped handlebars, skinny wheels, and lightweight tubing.  A serious speed machine.  Very different from the hefty-tubed and fat-tyred 'touring tandem' they owned later.  They'd cycled the long way around to visit his mum, but decided it was worth hurrying to try and catch the last ferry that day.

   The man at the pier  entrance said they wouldn't make it, but waved them through without charging for a 'pier toll' ticket.

   Mum says they 'fair flew' along the pier, but halfway there they heard the ferry siren, signalling it was about to leave.

   "Dig in", said Dad. 

   They dug, and skidded around the right angle at the end onto the steep ramp leading down to the ferry jetty.  Totally ignoring the 'Cyclists Dismount' notice.  The ramp had wooden slats nailed across it for grip, and Mum swore that instead of bumping they just 'buzzed' under the wheels, like a cattle grid being crossed at high speed.

   The mooring ropes had already been slipped and the ferry was idling away from the jetty.  The crewman had just slid the gangplank aboard.

   "Hold that plank!"  Dad bellowed, in his best foreman's voice.

   The ferry crew saw the tandem charging at them, with a fiery little redhead at the front and his 'tall Amazonian wench' leaning over him from behind, seemingly hell bent on either boarding or diving headlong into the water.

   The plank was shoved back out, the ferry idled a little closer, the skipper sticking his head out through the side window, and they slammed to a stop on the deck.

   The crewman picked up his ticket machine as casually as if this was an everyday event and cranked out a couple of tickets.

   "Never had to make a pier head jump when I was in the Navy," said Dad, "But this will be a story to tell my boy when he's older."

   Many years later I  asked Mum if she'd felt scared, seeing the ferry pulling away.

   "Not really.  Your Dad always knew what he was doing."

   Gyppo

Or that's what it felt like.  No, I haven't had my hair cut.

My damned headphones broke.  One earpiece just fell off and dangled from the cable.  It was strange sensation, listening to music and then suddenly losing the input on the left ear.

I've no idea how old they are, but they've been around for years.  Ideal in that they are the 'over the ear' variety, (I truly don't like earbuds), with a decent length of cable.  Long enough that I can get up from my desk and reach stuff on the shelves without pulling the plug out.  Short enough that there's not festooning black coils of it to trip me up, or get under the sliders of my chair.  Heavy enough to sit steadily on my head without wobbling or sliding, but not feel like a lead hat.

I can possibly mend them, but now the plastic has snapped I can see there's always been a weak point there and the other side is showing signs of following suit.  Time to move on, I think.

But I don't fancy modern cordless ones.  (I might love them if I tried a pair.)  Nor do I want to spend three figures for recording engineer quality.

Any suggestions as to a good make and model?

I'm currently using my old backup pair, which provide a  surprisingly good sound, but are cursed with a ludicrously short cable.  Fine for audiobooks, but it barely reaches the tower of my computer.   If I spin around to see what Alma is getting up to behind me the phones are ripped off my head.

They're also a little bit too lightweight.  But they'll serve a turn for now.

Looks like I'll be buying myself a new year present.

Gyppo

 

Been doing the annual tidy of really old files and found this from way-way back.  When I was a teenager an old boy in a New Forest pub told me this, and I've passed it on a few times over the years since.  So many years that now I'm the old boy ;-)

Gyppo

=====

'Candling' Rabbits.

Most people have at least a theoretical knowledge of using a ferret to 'bolt' rabbits from their burrows, driving them into purse nets pegged over the holes. This can be a very practical - and profitable - way of controlling a pest and getting several good meals.

But some people don't like handling ferrets, seeing them as nasty, smelly, vicous brutes. They needn't be, but that's a different issue. What I can tell you is that many a gullible 'townie' has listened to the following with every appearance of belief.

"Well, Boy, if thee want's a more gentler way of 'arvesting they conies (old rural name for rabbits) get yourself a tortoise and a short candle. One of they night light things is ideal. Baint no use using a torch though, it needs that little flame to do the trick proper like.

"Fit the candle onto the tortoise's back - I can sell thee a nice little custom made 'arness to hold it steady - light the candle, and put the tortoise gently into the rabbit warren .

"But thee must be patient then, patient as an 'eron waiting to catch a fish, and very still, and very quiet, so thee can hear the scuff of the rabbit's claws as 'e moves around. What's goin' on underground is this...

"The rabbit can smell the flame and smoke - which is why a torch is no good - and it makes 'im restless like, and when the tortoise gets near enough Mr Bunny starts moving away from the smell/flame. But 'e don't panic like 'e would with a big fire underground. Oh no, 'ee just backs off slow-like and if thee listens, careful-like, tis simple to figure which hole 'e be likely to pop out from.

"'Cept 'e don't exactly pop! The secret is 'e comes out arse end first and can't see thee until it's too late, so it's either let 'un go if the beggar's too small, or knock 'im and pop 'im in the sack for supper.

"Then all thee 'as to do is wait 'alf an 'our or so for the tortoise to follow 'im out, check the candle for life, and send 'im down another 'ole.

"Tis the most relaxin' form of 'untin' I've ever known. Let me know how thee gets on wi' it. And if thee want I can sell thee a young rabbitin' tortoise, specially bred for the job, a real steady worker."

===

Scary thought...

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   Irish Folk Songs and the Literal Child

   There is much in Irish Folk songs to confuse a literally minded child who loves words.  Fortunately I had parents who were patient enough to answer my questions,  often with other questions to help figure out what I was really asking.

   I try to do the same with my Grandaughter, and believe I did so with my girls.

   Dad worked with lots of Irish labourers, and apart from the few who were truly bitter and twisted they were, by and large, a cheerful lot who  often sang whilst working,  Back then most of the heavy work was pick and shovel, or laying bricks or tarmac, and nowhere near as much relentless mechanical noise to contend with.

   Having picked up a mixed bag of songs Dad sang the ones he liked whilst digging in the garden, or sawing logs, or riding his motorbike, and occasionally as lullabies for his 'little man'.

   Some of them puzzled me immensely.

   Take the song Finnegan's Wake for example.  A simple enough tale of a drunken hod carrier who fell from the ladder, banged his head, and they assumed he was dead.

   https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qstUxos2cBs

   I'd seen hod carriers scrambling up ladders and sliding down again, at breakneck speed on piece rate, so I knew what was happening.

   But the line 'They carried him home his corpse to wake' totally threw me.

   "Dad?  How can you wake a corpse?  He's dead, not just sleeping."(Although in the song it turned out Finnegan was merely stunned, and revived when they accidentally spilt some whiskey on him.)  "But they didn't know that when they carried him home, did they?"

   That was the day I discovered 'wake' had more than one meaning,  And, as a bonus, that the disturbed water behind a moving boat was also called a wake.

   Fascinating stuff for a big-eared, eternally curious little 'Word Hoover'.

   =====

   Then there was another one which triggered many questions.  The 'moonshiner's song'.  Dad really liked that one.

   https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=o5j_4XaLfko

   "I'm a rambler, I'm a gambler, I'm a long way from home,  And if people don't like me they can leave me alone.  I eat when I'm hungry, I drink when I'm dry, and if the moonshine don't kill me I'll live till I die."

   I'd never heard of moonshine as illegally distilled liquor, so equated it with moonlight.  I loved moonlight, I used to sit up in my little bunk at the end of the caravan  and watch the moon, and the shadows from the trees, etc,  It was magical, but...

   "Dad?  Is moonlight dangerous for adults, but safe for children.?"  (There was even a tune called 'Dangerous Moonlight', which was a reference to the 'Bomber's Moon' of wartime, but I wasn't particularly aware of that at the time.

   "Not as I've noticed.  Why?"

   I explained, Dad answered, and another mystery was solved, and filed away.  I was quite struck with the idea of living a moonshiner's life.

   Onto the next question, from his little Logic Monster.

    "Dad?  Surely everyone lives until they die.  Nobody can die before they die".

   Dad explained that one by saying the man in the song was saying a few glasses of whisky, or even a lot, wouldn't kill him.

   "Then why doesn't he just say so?"

   "Because song writers and poets like to wrap things up, instead of just saying it straight.  Sometimes the straight words don't fit the tune very nicely."

   I vaguely remember thinking that song writers and poets must be crazy.

   Then we tackled the big philosophical statement contained in the song.  One which made sense to me then, and still does to this day.

   'And if people don't like me they can leave me alone.'

   At that age I'd already realised that some people didn't like me, and that many of them, contrary to the common sense espoused in the song,  didn't leave me alone.  In fact they would seek me out in the playground or on the way home from  school to tell me just how much they disliked me.

   Why the constant repetition?  Did they think I hadn't heard them, didn't believe them?  Did they think I was stupid or slow?

   I avoided people I didn't like, but some of them still sought me out.

   If people didn't mean what they said, why say it?  And if they did mean it, why waste time and breath saying it over and over?

   Looking back I can see that most of my family understood my questions and made a pretty god job of answering them.  I was very rarely just fobbed off, and they knew damned well that if they promised to explain later I'd come back and remind them.

   I'm still deeply suspicious of many song lyrics, but now I tend to have fun with them.

   Gyppo




   

There was a temporary disruption in the water supply today.   Not at my house, as it happens, but thousands of others around  here were inconvenienced.  This was on our local newspaper's  website. My italics.

=====

Some households have woken up to no water or very low pressure.
This is due to demand being out surpassed by supply due to leaks caused by the drop in temperatures.
Temporary water stations have been opened.

That middle sentence makes no sense.

=====

I was also amused by some of the comments about this.

"How the hell am I supposed to shower in sparkling water?"

It never kills anyone to not shower for a day or two.

=====

I am having to wash my baby in the sink, but it's difficult to get the temperature right.

Yes, it always was.  Learn how.  Or just wipe them down with baby wipes for a day or two.  It won't harm them.  And cold(ish) water won't kill them.  The  little beasts are surprisingly resilient.

=====

I have cancelled my direct debit.

This , of course, solves nothing.

=====

And my favourite.

Look on the bright side.  If you can't get water then you're not getting all the sewage they dump into the rivers.

Fun and games.

Gyppo

Today is the Winter Solstice.

This means, whatever your eyes and feelings may tell you to the contrary, after tonight the days are getting longer again.

If that isn't worth a smile then you're beyond help ;-)

Gyppo

John and Frances are being tight-lipped about their activities this year.  Certainly nothing which will make a handy little 'short'.

So this time I offer a story from my time as a bakery apprentice, over fifty years ago.  A different world.  But one where I was already a keen people-watcher.

Gyppo

=====

   The Deserter's Wife.

   At my first bakery we had a proper lunch break, with dinner sent down from the restaurant on the top floor.  So we had time to talk- and listen - to life stories, which was impossible when we were working and the machines were running.

   As a shy and innocent apprentice I worked with a short-arsed little woman who I shall call Sue, purely because that's not her real name, and this is her story, not mine.  She took great delight in teasing me, a tall skinny lad who turned red quite easily.  She delighted in rubbing up against me at the least excuse, which were many in that small space.  The older men found this quite amusing.
 
   Her husband, she said one lunch break, was away in prison.  Again.  She flicked a teasing glance at me.  "So if you want to drop by one evening..."

        "Leave the poor lad alone." One of the men came to my aid, and Sue pouted as she went back to her tale.

   "Yes, he spends more time there than he does at home.  Fancies himself as a criminal mastermind, but he's a bloody useless crook.  Nice enough man but he always gets in with a wrong crowd,  Then he's the one who gets caught."

   "Has he always been a crook?" asked our Head Baker.

   "No, he was a soldier when I met him.  A big man in uniform.  Swept me off my feet.  Treated me like a real lady.  He always did.  Still does.  Not a violent bone in his body."

   "Then why did he sign up?"

   "He didn't, poor sod.   Got caught up when National Service was compulsory.  Did a runner in the first few weeks and was dragged back almost straight away.  Spent most of his time in the bloody Glasshouse."

   She paused to drink some of her tea.  "It must have cost them more to keep him than they ever got out of him in work.

   "Anyway, the day we were married, the Redcaps took him away from our reception.  I should have realised then, but..."

   She shook her head, and even as an inexperienced kid I began to realise that some people simply can't help themselves.

   "Whenever he did a runner he always came straight home to me.  One time the Redcaps even got to our house before he did, and were waiting outside when he arrived.  He walked straight up to them, held out his hands for the cuffs, and asked if they had time for a cup of tea before taking him back.

   "So when they knocked the door I let them in, gave them all tea and sarnies, and then said goodbye to him again.  He left me a carrier bag full of stuff he'd nicked 'just for you' between the train station and home.

   "That's just the kind of man he was."

   "Why did you put up with it? Asked our Head Baker.

   "Because he was a lovely man when we managed a few days together.  Because I agreed that they should just let him be a Civvy.  But it was funny as well.

   "One night the Redcaps turned up when we were living in a sixth floor flat.  We'd managed a few weeks because they'd not caught up with our change of address.  They nearly always sent the same pair and they were decent enough chaps too, just doing their job.  We were all on first name terms by then, and the cup of tea before they took him away had become a regular part of the proceedings.

   "That night they knocked, apologised for disturbing me, asked if 'his nibs' was in, and I just waved them in and went to put the kettle on.

   "Thirty seconds later they were back at the kitchen door.

   "He's not here, Sue."

   "He was.  Sat watching the telly."

   "His cup of tea was there and his fag still burning in the ash tray.

   "So they looked under the bed, and in any of the cupboards which were remotely big enough for a six foot plus man.  One of them went out and looked on the balcony, shook his head, and came back in.

   "Well...  Unless he's jumped he's not here.  And I can't see him on the ground.  We'll get him later."

   "That day they skipped the tea and just left.  As soon as the door had closed I heard his voice, calling me to help him.

   He was hanging off the bottom of the balcony, dangling from one of the girders which supported it."

   "You'll have to help me, Sue, I can't pull myself back up."

   "I reached through the bars, grabbed hold of his wrists, and the daft sod just let go of the girder and grabbed my wrists.  I only weigh about eight stone now, and was probably a bit less then.

   "I was dragged forward by his sixteen stone or so and slammed up against the railings.  But he had a good grip on my wrists by then.

   "I tried to pull him up enough for him to grab the railings, but he was a dead weight.  Dangling over a six storey drop."

   "And beyond him I could see the Redcaps having a fag before getting into their jeep.

   "My little arms were nearly being pulled from their bloody sockets.

   "Sorry Love.  You'll have call them back."

   She was laughing out loud at the memory.

   "So he did.  Bellowing like a bull until they looked up and came thundering back across the car park.  They kicked the door open to get in, and yanked him back into the flat with no fuss.  Once the cuffs were on one of them went and looked at the door.

   "It's only sprung, Sue.  The woodwork's okay.  I can fix it before we go if you'll make us a brew."

   "So the kettle went on, the door was fixed, and they let me have yet another goodbye hug with the daft bugger before they took him way."

   "Eventually the Army accepted what everyone else already knew, that he wasn't really suited  for the job, and let him go.  He reckons Civvy prisons are a cakewalk compared to The Glasshouse."

   Then it was time to get back to work.

   ===

   

If you love words, especially puns...

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YWC_G7yBGPM

Gyppo

    An artist, a poet, and a novelist are standing around at a party discussing if it's better to have a wife or a mistress.

    The artist says, "A mistress! No commitments, no hassles. When you get bored  you can just move on."

    The poet says, "One needs a wife. Her demands and expectations will help keep you grounded when you're in danger of spending too much time 'away with the fairies'.  Adding a little structure to an otherwise chaotic life."

    The novelist says, "You're both wrong. You need a wife and a Mistress.  And they both need to know of the other's existence. That way the wife thinks you're with the mistress, the mistress thinks you're with the wife, and all the while you're at the keyboard having the time of your life with your characters."

    ===