Toiletries and Shenanigans

Susan’s bathroom routine is complex and lengthy. It involves a range of ablutions for face and body followed by a generous application of ointments and sundry unguents and balms before feeling ready to embrace the new day with confidence and a face cutely glistening with youth and vitality. My investigations have revealed where she stores her supplies and, bearing in mind she is a creature of habit and can be relied upon not to notice anything out of the ordinary - even right before her eyes – I began to hatch a rascal-ish plan...

Her final primping stage is to daub liberal globs of Nivea cream on her cheeks (the upper ones, mostly) to leave them as soft and smooth as a baby’s for everyone to admire. Susan recognises the Nivea by approximate size and shape and will reach for the tube without close inspection.

I spent a few productive minutes designing and printing a small circular label the same size and colour as the Nivea brand and composed an alternative descriptive phrase for it. After a few scissor snips and a dab of glue-stick I slid the new label into place, positioned the tube back on its shelf and stood back to admire my ingenuity! Would Susan notice? Of course not!

I perked up and listened with interest when she next visited the bathroom for a cleansing session but, as anticipated, not a chortle, not a gasp, no reaction at all! She simply came trotting back into the bedroom, cheeks aglow, and stood at the window squinting into her eyebrow mirror. When she returned to the bathroom I followed behind and tentatively enquired if she had plenty of moisturiser left.

“This is it, right?” I asked, holding up the Nivea.

“Yep, I love that stuff,” Susan smiled.

“Really, you use this on your face?” I said, faking an expression of consternation.

She leaned in and looked closer. “What the f*** is that? Have I been rubbing that on my face all this time?” Her eyes were wide, her mouth agape. “Hiney Vaginey Balm? She shouted incredulously.

I was already dashing for safety when I heard her little feet slapping fast on the floor, chasing me, bent on retribution, cheeks gleaming with Jojoba butter!

A Shock at the Thrift Store

We were in our local ‘lightly used’ thrift store, Value Village recently and I wandered off to check out the jigsaw puzzles leaving Susan to work her way systematically through an eighty foot rail of jeans (at the small end), most so tiny I wouldn’t get a foot in them.

 

From a discreet distance I could see just the tippy-top of her little head and could tell she was engrossed in her trouserly inspections. I slunk surreptitiously back in her direction, keeping low to avoid detection. In no time I was creeping along the aisle next to hers and soon stationed myself right opposite her, just two rails of clothing now separated us.

 

The flapping of jeans legs and the clicking of hangers confirmed she was still rapt in her task and oblivious to most of what was going on around and about. Now I was crouched down and slowly parting the garments on my side of the rails... then, a swift swish of Levi’s and I poked my head through with a beaming smile! Well, the dancing and the jumping and the loud verbal protestations had to be witnessed to be fully appreciated. Suffice to say I could have done with my big spatula to ease the little lady off the ceiling!

 

Susan’s a good sport... but to calm her now thumping heart I skipped around to her aisle, sidled up to her and reached my arm right around round for a light squeeze of the upper t-shirt – a double squeeze, two in quick succession accompanied by a double-toot sound, somewhat reminiscent of a cartoon car horn. Inevitably I collapsed into giggles while Susan, to her eternal credit, gave me a sheepish grin.

 

Despite all this mischief she is still speaking to me (well, mumbling oaths, at least!)

Wild Impulse

“Let’s pop in here!” Susan chirped.

 

In she darted and marched right up to an extensive wall display of dildos. I trailed in her wake glancing surreptitiously left and right, waiting for some cheery voice to call, Hey Paul, how’s it going! Yet none came.

We busied ourselves studying the exciting merchandise on offer, murmuring quietly. Susan stooped to study brightly coloured items on the bottom shelf while I scanned the upper reaches. A lady of advanced years sauntered over and began researching right beside me. She appeared particularly taken by some abnormally large stock, tantalizingly just out of reach of her up-stretched arm.

“Would you mind, young man?” she asked. I looked all around me to locate this juvenile she was talking to. “I’m in a hurry,” she beseeched, looking me right in the eye. Even at sixty-one I was probably twenty years her junior. I politely inquired, “Which one?”

She pointed to a huge black phallus standing alone and erect high above us. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Susan’s shoulders shaking with silent mirth. I reached for the requested cock and gripping it firmly I brought it down within her reach.

She gave me a demure smile of thanks, grabbed it with both hands and immediately thumbed a switch which set the thing whirring. I edged away watching her examination from a discreet distance. It seemed this eye-wateringly large member met her exacting requirements and she scuttled off to the checkout.

I raised my eyes at Susan. “Who knew?” I whispered.

After a lengthy perusal of the toys, with much nodding of approval, sage rubbing of chins and the occasional raised eyebrow, we took a nonchalant stroll to the lubricant display where small spritzers in alluringly dark colours stood solemnly in neat rows. Descriptors such as ‘hyperglide’ spoke seductively to our inner animal. Equally enticing was the range of subtle flavours. Caramel caught my eye and we exchanged wordless glances and barely perceptible nods.

Eager to do justice to the visit we took time to admire the inflatable partners who claimed to cater to all tastes and persuasions and promised an ultra-realistic experience, For display purposes these rubber friends were neatly flattened and folded into boxes which you could carry conveniently under one trembling arm. How thoughtful.

Leather lingerie, whips and stilettos; vibrators of every size, shape and colour; paraphernalia whose purpose we could only guess at, though the tapered ends hinted at insertion. Yes, something for everyone here. Well, anyone bold enough to come in and browse!

We checked the coast was clear of acquaintances and carried our one small purchase to the pay desk where we were greeted by a friendly old lady with a blue rinse and pearls. “Oh, caramel!” she bellowed for all to hear. “My favourite!”

A Day in the Life of Susan Adams

A visit to Wal-Mart:

Susan is choosing some new intimate underwear and I have been enlisted for moral support. She is emptying boxes, examining the contents and putting them aside. I nod sagely and appropriately, agreeing with her exclamations of distaste, surprise and criticism. There are some that look like harnesses with huge buckles and straps, and others so skimpy they are hardly there!

 

Armed with a selection of the tasteful yet functional Susan leads the way to the fitting room where we exchange glances and grimace at the sight of an overflowing cart outside the fitting room door. We settle in to wait, and wait Periodically a woman shopper pops out to collect an armful of garments and disappears back inside.

 

This is soon frustrating and I decided to teach the selfish shopper a serious lesson. I suggest that we should steer her full cart to a distant region of the store then sneak back to observe her reaction. Naturally I feel a tad tremulous. I mean, so much could go wrong. But never one to duck an issue, Susan takes over and, grabbing the cart, she marches off with it at a fair lick.

 

I trot behind as she zig-zags between aisles. Soon she finds a suitably distant parking spot and abandons the cart complete with its load of carefully selected and tried-on clothes. We turn on our heels and backtrack to the fitting room. Well in fairness Susan does. I stand at a safe distance several meters off, peering around a shelving unit to keep the fitting room (and Susan) under surveillance.

 

The fitting room door swings open and out jumps the shopper. Details from here on are somewhat sketchy as I display all the bravery of a scaredy-cat by darting away to inspect some pillow cases very closely with my head lowered. According to the mischief maker (who had been standing demurely and in plain sight) our shopper swung her head this way and that, swivelled on the spot with an air of utter confusion, befitting someone whose cart has vanished into thin air, then stalked off with her nose in the air.

 

Finally Susan scurries into the fitting room for her turn!

 

Bedtime:

I let Susan shower first then I slip into the bathroom for a soak in the bath. As I towel dry I hear her in the bedroom, sneezing. So cute! I flick off the bathroom light and wander in darkness to the bedroom. My eyes haven’t yet adjusted but I can just make out her little shape in the bed, snuggled under the covers.

 

I creep stealthily across the carpet and kneel at the foot of the bed. Time for a little fun! I slip my hands under the duvet and slide them smooth as a snake towards the dainty little tootsies I know are there... no warm skin... she must have spotted me and curled her little legs up. So, with a grin, I slide my hands further. Nothing!

 

There comes a stifled shriek from the darkness of the kitchen and I stand and wheel round to spot the pale gleam of a little face peeping round a corner. It’s the little rascal herself! I switch the bedroom light on and see the lump of pillows hidden under the duvet in the rough approximation of a human form. Susan’s mouth is wide with silent laughter which erupts now into hysterical cackles as I sit meekly and somewhat abashed on the edge of the bed.

 

I am sorely tempted to put her over my knee for a sound spanking but how can you reprimand such wonderful frivolity?

 

This is what days are like when you have a Susan in your life!

Susan and the Medicine Chest

Charlottetown, 2014:

I winced. "Think I have a bit of a sore throat coming on."

"Take a spoonful of honey mixed with cinnamon," Susan advised.

Grateful but unconvinced, I suggested a visit to my medicine chest, a box of pharmaceutical wonders which Susan had yet to glimpse.

"What on earth have you got in there?" She asked, peering in as I removed the lid to reveal a cornucopia of salves, balms and ungents, bottles, packets and tubes.

"I think I have Chloraseptic Spray. Yes, here it is," I announced, as I proudly withdrew the dark green bottle from its somewhat battered box. "Look, you pump the top and a jet of soothing goo drowns your tonsils." I demonstrated the procedure with a flourish.

"Give me that. Looks like it's old," Susan said. I handed it over with a degree of trepidation. She squinted at the small print and her eyebrows arched suddenly, always a cause for concern. "This says 2007!" She barked.

"But, but, but..."

"No buts. It's going in the bin right now!" I watched as she tossed the wondrous potion into my bin. I was crestfallen. Honey and cinnamon it would have to be.

***

Charlottetown 2016:

"I'm all congested." Susan whimpered.

"Awww, poor you. I think I have some Dristan nasal spray. Hang on, I'll check. I could feel her eyes boring into the back of my head as I skipped to the bathroom. I returned with a smile carrying my medicine chest. No sooner had I located the squeezy bottle than she whipped it from my hand and began examining it.

"Geez Paul, 2004! Did they even make it back then?"

"But I've used it recently," I offered. "And it still works."

"I'm not squirting that ancient stuff up my nose, " She said, snorting loudly for emphasis. "And while we're about it, what else have you got lurking in there?"

"Errr, umm, nothing much." I hooked a defensive arm around the medicine chest. "Just some things." I avoided eye contact while she stirred the contents and pulled out a small box, still sealed.

"Good Lord Paul, these eye drops are dated 2002!"

"Oh, that'll be ok," I said. "I'm sure they're fine. Please may I keep th..."

"And what the heck is this? And this? And this?" came the snapped response. Now she had her hand on her hip and was tapping her foot so I knew she meant business. "In the bin, all of it! And no dumpster-diving!"

***

I will have to find a new hiding place for my 1999 vintage eardrops.

Genius

6:30 and a glorious summer morning, perfect for an early grocery shopping expedition. There would be few people around; just how I like it. So I roused the girls and marched them, sleepy-eyed and stumbling, to the car.

"Aren't the roads lovely and quiet this morning girls," I remarked into the rear view mirror. (That's because it's Sunday, the little voice in my head affirmed.) "I love Sundays!" I said aloud. "I'll get my groceries in peace and quiet, far from humankind, and be home in time to watch the Formula 1 motor race from Germany."

I cruised along the deserted streets of Charlottetown, all the while patting myself on the back for my foresight until we swung into the Superstore parking lot. It was empty. The huge sign reminded me Sundays, 12:00 - 17:00. I muttered an internal Fuck!

"Sorry girls, for waking you so early. Right now I'm the only idiot in the whole of Canada driving with his shopping bags and shopping list to a closed store." There came no reply.

A little later as we rounded the corner by Ellen's Creek Maisie asked, "Daddy, what's the opposite of idiot?! "Genius," I asserted. One good thing is, I would definitely be home in time for the German Grand Prix. Yes, genius!

In celebration of Naked Gardening. (I think!)

World Naked Gardening Day is a recent tradition for the first Saturday of May, encouraging us to tend our gardens au naturel, a curious yet alluring notion in which I participated with gusto, diving into the great outdoors, fork and hoe in hand, wearing only a winsome smile. What could possibly go wrong?

 

Some months ago, the custom of vacuuming in my birthday suit was exposed after Susan caught me red-handed (and bare-cheeked) skipping around my apartment clutching my hose and crevice tool, so venturing into the great outdoors was surely a logical progression.

 

I wish this event were held a tad later in the growing season, then my neighbourhood might resound to cries such as, "nice cucumber, sir!" Or "impressive hollyhocks, my friend!" And "I see your gherkins are coming on nicely, gentlemen!" However, custodians of this celebratory date have dictated May, and we all know nature is not gloriously rampant at this time of year, in fact it can be decidedly shrivelled. But it's not what you've got, it's how you garden with it which counts, so...

 

"Hello there, neighbour. I notice you're trimming your bush, Ma'am!" I called. She was clipping her Forsythia and my double entendre was likely lost on her as she was fully clothed. "Careful with those shears when it comes to 'the lady garden' Ma'am!" I offered with a chuckle. She gave me the stink-eye.

 

Oh well, I myself intended to mark the day 'renewing my earthly bonds' and was sure others would soon join in. It was time to fire up the weed-wacker. I yanked the crank, announcing my presence to the world, and skipped merrily along the path to trim up the gooseberry patch.
 

Caught up in the emotion of the moment, the early spring breeze ruffling my seed packet, I pranced from spot to spot, relishing the gorgeous, trouserless freedom of the day. Bugger the gardening, I thought and for no reason other than sheer exhibitionism I sprinted the length of the lawn. Had this been a running race I might well have been disqualified - for 'flapping' into lane two.

When gardening, you can lose yourself in daydreams and it's easy to forget you are as naked as the day you were born. So when I switched off, and the deafening sound of silence descended, I was startled to see a row of grinning faces peering over my fence. I'm sure at least two had binoculars out and one was scribbling notes with a pencil, or was it a field sketch.

"That reminds me. Meat and two veg for dinner tonight," one remarked.

"Sausage for me!" cackled another. At that, I clutched 'Mr. Sniffles', acutely aware I was the only one marginally under-dressed (albeit impeccably manscaped).

The wail of a police siren; then a cruiser pulled up.

"Move along. Nothing to see here, folks," the cop observed.

Girding my loins, I galloped for my door calling out limply, "Forgive me, officer. It's all been a dreadful mistake."

Oh no! Did I get the day wrong?

Gloves or Panties?

A young man wanted to purchase a gift for his new sweetheart's Christmas present. As they had not been dating for very long, after careful consideration, he decided that a pair of gloves would strike the right note, not too romantic and not too personal. Accompanied by his sweetheart's sister he went to Harrods and bought a dainty pair of white gloves. The sister purchased a pair of panties for herself at the same time. During the wrapping the shop assistant mixed up the two items and the sister got the gloves and the sweetheart the panties. Without checking the contents the young man sealed the package and sent it to this sweetheart with the following note:

 

Sweetheart, I chose these because I noticed that you are not in the habit of wearing any when we go out in the evening. If it had not been for your sister I would have chosen the long ones with the buttons, but she wears the short ones that are easier to remove.

 

These are a delicate shade, but the lady I bought them from showed me the pair that she had been wearing for the past three weeks and they were hardly soiled at all. I had her try yours on for me and she looked really smart in them even though they were a little tight on her. She also told me that her pair rubs on her ring, which helps keep it clean and shiny, in fact she had not needed to wash it since she had begun wearing them.

 

I wish I were there to put them on for you for the first time, as no doubt many other hands will touch them before I have a chance to see you again. When you take them off remember to blow into them before putting them away as they will naturally be a little damp from wearing. Just think how many lips will kiss them during the coming years. I hope that you will wear them for me on Friday night.

 

All my love

 

P.S The latest style is to wear them folded down with a little fur showing.

(I believe this joke was first attributed to JRR Tolkien in his college days.)

The Incident of the Cakes

Office workers In England will know about the cake tradition. If it's your birthday you buy cakes for everyone. And not just simple tarts or squares but lavish cream cakes. This is how the ceremony might unfold:

The young lad returned from the cake shop laden with goodies. He placed bags on a central desk and carefully began to unpack them. Even as he arranged the square white boxes, eyes swivelled in sockets and heads nodded purposefully across desks. Helpfully he lifted the box lids and stood back to admire his work. The first gluttons were already out of their seats.

Birthday boy was back at his post, repositioning his telephone headset and mumbling, 'cakes guys' to his colleagues but scouts were already cruising the area, like sharks scenting blood. The first two lunged instinctively at their quarry, reaching, cramming, chewing. Other diners joined the throng, fist over flailing, grabbing fist. The desk was slick with cream smears and a box was tossed to the floor. The feeding frenzy reached fever pitch.

The larger beasts sank back from the feast now, gorged on cream, on cake, on chocolate and icing. Smaller, more timid feeders crept up to select dainty fondant fancies and pecked nervously over the remaining crumbs.

 

The office was noisy with the hum of conversation mumbled through stuffed cheeks. Birthday boy ended his phone call and walked over to the cake table. "Is there one left for me?" He ventured, his bottom lip trembling.

It's a cruel world out there. Eat or be eaten.

check your cheeks

I pride myself on presenting the best of me. That's not to say I spend hours in front of a mirror primping and plucking; I don't. But I take care over my appearance. However, someone might point to a time when I once let my standards slip.

Picture the scene; Susan and I are sitting at my table, replete after dining on a gorgeous curry, a dish we had prepared and cooked ourselves. We are relaxing, chatting about the ingredients, the hot spices, the wonderful colours, looking forward to a cosy evening on the sofa with a good movie. Our eyes meet and we exchange happy smiles of contentment.

But something's wrong. Susan is frowning. In an effort to recapture the mood I widen my smile, why I'm practically beaming. But this doesn't have the desired effect. Susan rocks back in her chair, laughing in little hitching gasps. "What's up," I query, a degree of confusion creeping over me, and indeed a little disappointment.

"Look in the mirror," cries Suzie. "Look in the darn mirror, Paul!"

Uncertainly I rise from the table and move to the bathroom. The mirror returns my look of bewilderment, but wait, there's something more. My mouth is surrounded by the sumptuous red juices of our wonderful curry! Indian spices are strong in colour, in flavour and it seems impervious to the discreet dabbings of a napkin. In horror, I run the hot tap and soak a facecloth. I lather a bar of soap and scrub and scour with gusto. At last the curry stains transfer from my face to the cloth.

I creep back to the dining table and crack a sheepish grin. "Is that better?" I enquire.

"Oh honey, the look on your face...   and the curry!" And once more Suzie dissolves in fits of hysterics.

***

Footnote: If you see us exchange a beaming smile, I mean a big, fat, clownish smile, you might guess we are secretly reliving that moment.

Night Shopping

My perfect time for grocery shopping is early morning, very early morning, preferably in darkness. Gliding into an empty parking lot, sauntering up and down empty aisles, perusing fully stocked shelves without distraction is heavenly.

But even at 6am I might not be the only shopper and if I spy someone I'll take a detour to avoid them. I mean, who wants to say "excuse me" to reach the salad dressing when you're the only two people in a vast store?

On the graveyard shift there is usually just one cashier open, her solitary light gleaming like a beacon in a long line of empty lanes. I march steadfastly past, aiming for the self-serve checkouts, (those admirable inventions which cancel the requirement to speak to a human). There I am master of the electronic interaction. I know the codes, the weighing options for the fruit and veg, the loyalty points system. They hold no fear, only pleasure for me.

Susan's ideal time for grocery shopping is Saturday afternoon, preferably before a public holiday. I've explained the folly of this plan numerous times and to her credit she does understand. However she arrives at my apartment hot and bothered, with tales of barging through crowds, elbowing old ladies out of the way and kicking old men's shins to get to the Brussels sprouts.

But she seems to thrive on the cut and thrust, the bobbing and weaving between slowpokes. No matter that Saturday afternoon means picking over the remnants of limp lettuce, soft tomatoes and brown bananas; discovering that the amazing flyer bargains are sold out, and having to park at the distant reaches of the parking lot where the crap from the old snow pile has congealed underfoot.

Susan likes to hurry round the store but it's so busy there aren't even any carts left. She is swinging a hand basket (which she likes to tell people to go to hell in), tsk-ing amid the crowds of buffoons who have no idea where they are going or what they are looking for.

Now there's an ample woman shuffling along in slippers which don't leave the ground, leaning on her cart for support. She's hogging the middle of the aisle, making passing tricky. (Why did you take that shortcut down the cookie aisle Susan? You know it makes you mumble obscenities.)

At long last her little basket holds the few forlorn items she could calmly and happily have bought in the wee small hours. Terrified of technology, she averts her gaze from the thinly populated self serve lanes and heads for the manned checkouts, heaving with shoppers and overflowing carts. I hear this time and again, "I always pick the wrong lane!" Well, observe the cashier. Avoid the plump male with sausage-like fingers; that way lies madness. He will be on the phone to his supervisor for help with half the items in your cart. At least go to a lane with a middle-aged female cashier who doesn't seem to be talking much to her customers. Watch those nimble fingers; gauge if she's a seamstress in her home life.

Even then Susan's problems might just be starting. The till roll runs out (see, you forgot to look for the tell-tale pink lines on the receipt roll during your lane assessment!) Someone tries to engage her in bland conversation, "Cool out today." She grunts a nothing reply and pretends to study her phone. Now the man ahead is suddenly smelly, the cart handle is teeming with germs, the cashier is reaching for the phone, a customer is patting his pockets searching for his wallet. It's hell on earth. I know. I've been there. Meantime the self-serve lanes are empty, serene and inviting.

Suzie puts herself through this nightmare and tells me how dreadful it was. She knows I hate the experience equally so when I nod sagely in agreement and gently remind her I do my shopping differently, she punches me in the arm with the strength of a prize-fighter. Ouch!

(Seriously, those cart-leaners, don't you want to poke 'em in the eye!)

The Naked Vacuum Cleaner

"On my way," she texted. "Shopping done!"

 

"I'll be ready," I replied. But ready for what, and by when?

 

Susan drives from O'Leary to Charlottetown for a few days every week, often stopping on the way for provisions at Sobeys in Summerside. 'On my way' signified to me the start of a sixty minute drive from the west of the island. Normally I am prepared way in advance but that day I was running late owing to an early morning excursion to Sport Chek, on the hunt for Under Armour compression shorts (long leg, 32 waist). But I digress.

 

I consulted my watch and sketched out a mental plan by which I would be sitting comfortably in my armchair awaiting Susan's arrival with time to spare, bathed, shaved, bathroom cleaned, laundry folded and stowed, and my modest abode vacuumed and scrubbed to the point where eating off the floor would be a serious contention; my preferred way of life.

 

While drawing a deep, hot bath, I shaved my cheeks till they glowed smooth and pink. I had stripped off and was about to clamber into the tub when a thought occurred... vacuuming can be sweaty work. Perhaps I should do that before bathing; such a sensible move. I strode to the storage room, bare feet slapping on the vinyl floor, and grabbed my vacuum cleaner (Kenmore, cylinder type, 1400 watts) and carried it to my bedroom. I would start there, shimmy to the hall, the second bedroom and thence to the living room; my faultless plan.

 

Here I will concede this was not my first foray into housework 'au naturel'. Perhaps it's that certain thrill, that frisson of excitement, dancing from room to room, wondering if it's safe to scurry past those huge patio windows. You get in the zone; the back and forth, the hum of the motor. In fairness and in my defence, it's easy to forget you're in your birthday suit.

 

I twirled out of my bedroom, tugging my trusty vac behind, long lissom limbs reaching and stretching into all nooks and crannies. Soft brush attachment in place, I sucked at ledges, shelves, skirting boards and radiators, leaping over the cylinder as nimbly as a young gazelle, in a world of my own.

 

As I pirouetted out of the bathroom, hose and nozzle in hand, and headed for the living room, I saw a person... a real, live, fully dressed person, looking at me with eyebrows arched high and jaw slack. I froze... my heart actually skipped several beats. While my mind processed the scene and its ramifications, my silent witness sank slowly to her knees. Then she bowed forward until her forehead reached the floor. Only then did she emit a sound, a stuttering squawk, half laugh, half wail...

 

As alarm took its vice-like grip on me, I leapt sideways in a single bound to the relative safety of bedroom two. "You're early, Susan," I ventured, studiously avoiding any mention of my state.

 

Her initial reply was a clucking sound which gradually resolved into peals of laughter. I sneaked a peek around the door frame and saw Susan lying on my floor literally quivering with mirth.

 

"You made good time from Summerside," I said.

 

Between ragged guffaws came the words, "I messaged you from Charlottetown, ten minutes away! Now I see what you meant by I'll be ready!"

 

***

 

We met under adventurous circumstances several months ago and became inseparable from day one so it's strange that I felt so cringingly embarrassed, but I did. Perhaps it was the simple business of being caught red-handed and bare-cheeked, quite unexpectedly. Well, put yourself in a similar position and imagine!

 

To her credit (and proof, though hardly needed, that she accepts every part of my character and personality), Susan didn't ask me why. Nor did she bat an eyelid while I blabbered on about having calculated that I still had an hour before her arrival, and had been side-tracked at the very point of leaping into the bath. There are no satisfactory excuses. No one behaves like I did, or if they do they don't get caught!

a post Olympic view London 2012

I have a bad case of Olympic fever. For sixteen days I lived the action: charged up the hundred metre straight, gasped breaths between strokes in the pool, grunted with each tennis serve, panted and grimaced my way to impossible weight lifts and span my imaginary pedals at the velodrome. I should be exhausted but no, I’m still on a high.

The sporting achievements were truly impressive but these days world records are nothing unless delivered with glamour. The athletics showcase events, the 100m and 200m sprints, threw up almost predictably stunning results by Usain Bolt and his Jamaican cohorts but did you check out the diamond earrings, the gold neck chains and the designer sunglasses colour coded to match the one-piece Lycra suits.

The price of failure is high and with this in mind competitors were spurred to ridiculous lengths. At least two weight lifters were all but crushed beneath the crippling weight of their loaded bars; the coach of the losing Russian women’s volleyball team has since committed suicide.

However with former middle-distance track giant Seb Coe at the helm it was never in doubt that London 2012 would deliver big. For Team GB Andy Murray was always going to thrash arch-nemesis Roger Federer at Wimbledon; Mo Farah was destined to overhaul all his African cousins in the 5k and 10k; Chris Hoy simply HAD to pedal his bike to a record fifth Gold and little Jessica Ennis was nothing less than a certainty for the women’s heptathlon – a gilt-edged, copper-bottomed dead cert!

I can’t take some events seriously: beach volleyball is a cross between sunbathing and soft porn; rhythmic gymnastics (while doubtless a highly demanding physical triumph) could be dismissed as girly ball-bouncing and ribbon-jiggling; I’ve never watched it but sailing is probably just a few laps round the Isle of Wight and a nice glass of Chianti; BMX biking was something we did over the common and got punctures – (hey, don’t you know your saddle’s way too low?); table tennis, good grief we played that at the Youth Club as teenagers and now the Chinese seem to dominate the world!

This Olympiad was not without a wryly comical side, for me at least. I was still shaking my head in disbelief at yet another flawless dive leaving barely a ripple in the Aquatic Centre when the commentator (doubtless some chlorine-soaked old wrinkly) hooted in derision at the over-rotation, loose shoulders and general sloppiness of the performance. Diving beauty is clearly in the eye of the beholder.

 

In this age of visual excess and clamour for Warhol’s fifteen minutes The Games were a platform for the movers and shakers to be seen moving and shaking. No opportunity was wasted by competitors, reporters, statesmen, celebrities or spectators to see and be seen. Prime Minister-in-waiting and friendly buffoon Boris Johnson even gauged a period of comical suspension from a zip wire would do his self-promotion no harm at all and he was probably right.

crazy olympics report london 2012

I find it difficult to imagine Apollo squeezing into his Speedos for a few sets of beach volleyball; Hermes mounting his stallion for some ‘horsey-dancing’or Poseidon and Heracles adjusting their noseclips as they prepare to start their synchronised swimming routine...

The first Olympic Games for the Twitter and Facebook generation has produced some crazy stuff. Clues that this was a ‘modern’ Games came at the Opening Ceremony; teenage Olympians marching in the entry parade, their iPhones held aloft capturing video instead of/as well as soaking up the atmosphere of a lifetime.

I thought the Opening Ceremony, despite media criticisms, presented Great Britain to the world in a strong light. Above the spectacular Olympic Stadium remotely controlled cameras scuttled like big black beetles on a network of high wires to beam pictures of the visual feast from every conceivable angle. TV viewers had sumptuous views from inside, outside and above the stadium without having to stump up an eye-watering £2,100 pounds for the most expensive tickets in the house.

I’m watching the spectacle from Canada. There’s a bias in the TV coverage towards events favoured in Canada and The States and commercials appear every few minutes. I hear regular references to landmarks such as Bucking-HAM Palace. Those irritations aside, at least I have five Olympic TV channels, including three in hi-definition, plus plenty of unofficial streaming online so I have most events covered. Reports tell me the Brits are infuriated with some crass home commentary and insensitive interviewing. Another sign of the times is the stinking army of British Trolls unleashing verbal campaigns against British athletes on Twitter and in online comments threads everywhere. It seems Silver is regarded as abject failure. The prospect of a Canadian disrespecting a Canadian athlete seems unthinkable.

Call me an old traditionalist but Track and Field are where the true spirit of the Olympics lies. I’ll be watching the athletics with keen interest from this weekend onwards.

The Mad

• Gymnasts using little water pistols to spray the Uneven Bars (By the way, when did we stop calling them the Asymmetric Bars?)
• The trampolinists whistling shrilly with each breath. (Is it just me or did her hips look a bit soggy?)
• Swimmers wearing TWO caps, one on top of the other. (Never venture out without your undercap!)

The Bad

• Badminton players expelled for trying to lose.
• Athletes naively posting scans of their Olympic security passes online.
• Olympic officials who allegedly charged a barely credible £19,000 to expenses for a single bottle of 1853 vintage Cognac.

The Sad

• The civilian cyclist tragically crushed under an Olympic shuttle bus on Thursday.

I can’t help but wonder what that mythical god and resident of Mount Olympus, Zeus would make of twenty-first century shenanigans: Olympians stabbing away at smart phones or wearing giant headphones as they saunter into the arena. Everywhere style vies with substance for supremacy and you can be forgiven for thinking competitors are awarded marks for fingernail flag painting, naval jewellery, sparkliest shoes and wackiest cycling helmet. Despite all the silly trappings of modernity, athletic cream will rise to the surface and I’m sure there will be some truly momentous performances.

Last Gas Station on Earth

I was re-reading some older stuff today and it occurred to me that there are some pieces my newer readers probably haven't seen. Apologies to those who probably know this and the next two by heart but I reckoned they just about deserve another outing...

The Pontiac thumped over a pothole and Frank watched the fuel gauge lift then settle on 'Empty' again. "Fuck it," he breathed and hit the steering wheel hard. They had passed a Texaco 10 miles back and were now running on vapour. "Look," cried Paula, "Gas ahead!" She launched her finger toward a run-down gas station and general store in the distance.

Frank pulled onto the cracked cement beside a solitary ancient pump. Is that gas or paraffin he wondered. His gaze took in the peeling paint, ice machine and an ages old Coca Cola sign hanging by one screw. "Stay here Paula." He shut the car door slowly and stepped past a deck chair faded and stained with age. Through the window past the hand-written 'Open' sign he could make out an old boy, a wad of chewing tobacco in his cheek.

A bell clanged loudly as he pushed the door and somewhere out back a dog started barking gruffly and ominously. The skeletal figure waved a thin hand and in a barely intelligible accent rattled, "If it's gas you want, go through and talk to Billy." A fly buzzed in Frank's ear and he slapped it away as he nodded, "Thanks."

In the back sat Billy and three friends grinning with menace. A rotting Plymouth Fury sitting up on bricks was visible in the back yard and a German Shepherd sat in its shade, tongue out panting. Frank thought of Paula sitting in the Pontiac holding the battery powered fan to her pretty face.

Suddenly Billy shrieked, "It's party time!" His pals stood up, chair legs scraping on the bare wood floor. Frank turned and saw his way back blocked by the muzzle of a 12-bore shot gun in the hands of the old boy. As his eyes darted frantically for another exit he heard Paula shouting. The shout became a siren winding up to full scream. Then silence.

"You fucking bastards! What have you done?" The gun barrel pushed closer and touched his temple. Frank screwed his eyes shut and a sharp metallic click rang out. When Frank opened them Paula was sitting in the passenger seat of the Pontiac lighting a cigarette and smiling. "Wake up hon', rest over. We need to drive on and get that gas now or we ain't never gonna make it to Huntsville!"

The Office Martyr

My office has steadily reduced in numbers over the last year yet the martyr remains stubbornly tied to her stake. Once she played to a full house of seventy plus and although that sympathetic audience has dwindled to a small matinee attendance, the quality of her performance has not diminished. Once a mere lieutenant, she has risen by default to dizzy heights and now seeks condolence in the full glare of the spotlight.

Each day brings cause for a new pained expression. Etched on her face is the statement “I really shouldn’t be here, I think I have double pneumonia. But someone needs to make the effort or this office will simply fall apart.” There is a danger that colleagues will forget how gravely ill she is, so regular reinforcement is crucial. Accordingly frenzied bouts of sneezing are interspersed with lung-shredding coughs and laboured breathing.

Sceptical observers of this phenomenon know it will be hard to maintain the illness at “touch and go” status. Sooner or later patience will be rewarded and the mask will slip. The phone rings, trill, trill… our martyr’s plaintive voice greets the caller, cracking and stuttering through strings of phlegm. Sentences are punctuated with exaggerated sniffs, yet as the call proceeds, a curious and remarkable recovery begins. Thirty seconds in, the conversation is running smoothly. Vowels and consonants are pronounced with ease and eloquence and the slow, sorrowful tones replaced with enthusiasm and giggles…

Similar speedy recovery from dental treatment is equally astonishing. Much clattering and banging draws attention to a late arrival. “How did it go?” we inquire politely. The response is barely intelligible, delivered through a mouth evidently still numb from invasive treatment. Speech is managed with almost no discernible jaw movement. There is considerable mumbling and lines of dribble keep mysteriously appearing thereby prompting frequent dabbing of the lips. Clearly there have been multiple extractions and probably root canal fillings. However, within the hour she is heard explaining to a colleague with startling clarity, “yes I was little late, I had a dental check-up...”

On occasions this heroic devotion to work reaches an astounding level of commitment. Movement from desk to photocopier is achieved only with strenuous effort and a good deal of grunting. The left leg proceeds normally but the right is dragged behind limp and lifeless. Incredibly there has been no steady onset of this condition, surely she must have suffered a massive road traffic accident over the weekend. The useless limb is hauled along like a suitcase on wheels as she attempts the return journey to her desk. A subsequent trip to the fax requires the same effort, yet smart onlookers note the tragic injury has now afflicted the left leg while the right is good as new. Later the signs are of only a slight limp and even more perplexing is the mid-morning sight of our martyr positively sprinting to the coffee machine...

The stench of burning martyr hangs heavy in the air…

The pen is mightier than the sword

An unrelated image serving merely to send waves of calm over me.

I can’t think off the cuff well, I have to prepare. If I don’t I get beaten every time. So my approach to wordplay is 'cover every angle.' My previous posts have hinted at a difficult working relationship. Here we go then the big word fight I thought I would never win, anger and hate with words and language.

I settled my quiver full of adjectives on the ground before me. Each had been hand-picked from ‘Roget.’ Gripping one with forefinger and thumb I placed it in the bow of my noun. I let it loose and quickly reloaded. Her response was a verbal volley of stinging barbs. Ducking instinctively I heard the angry words rush over me, felt their wind. Hers seemed so well chosen, with the right emphasis and deadly accurate.

I patted my jeans, sure I had some reserve adverbs in my back pocket, hell where did I put them? Ah, they were up my sleeve. Would I have time to weave them around suitable verbs? The squeaking stretch of her catapult heralded another attack. I winced as a tennis ball sized insult took skin off my forehead. Wiping away the blood and fighting back tears of anger I threw a limp poetic phrase at her. It fell yards short and she roared laughter of disdain.

My puny ammunition was running out. I tried a bitter-sweet oxymoron which failed to ignite. Her almighty alliteration angled at me without warning. Now I was gravely wounded. I reached for my last palindrome in an attempt to confuse her but she brushed it off like so much waffle.

‘Pretentious arsehole,’ I heard her say as she pulled the pin on a fully-formed argument the shape of a grenade. It went off in my face tearing flesh and leaving holes. Moving in she tried to deeply crack my head with a split infinitive. I rolled over at the last minute and retorted with a gentle couplet. What had seemed so potent the night before now appeared lame.

She was gathering her remaining arsenal when suddenly I remembered sarcasm, that thunderous sledgehammer which pulverises simple, rational thought. It had been by my side all along and now I held its woody shaft a degree of confidence returned. She had had this coming for a long time and the heavy swing felt oh so very good as I smacked it into my palm in preparation then screamed:

“You have such a pretty face, how unfortunate that the whole illusion of beauty is shattered when you open your mouth!” The fifteen pound lump crunched into her skull and she fell dead at a stroke. I nodded slowly as I watched the remnants of her flimsy vocabulary scattering in the wind.

“I am one of those melodramatic fools
Neurotic to the bone no doubt about it.”
Green Day – Basket Case

The Incident of the Cakes

You work in an office then you'll know about the cake tradition. If it's your birthday you buy cakes for everyone. That's everyone, including the greedy, the ignorant and the wasters. Today I watched that pitiful ceremony unfold.

Birthday boy returned from the cake shop laden with goodies. He placed bags on a central desk and carefully began to unpack them. As he arranged the square white boxes, eyes swivelled in sockets and heads nodded purposefully across desks. Helpfully he lifted the box lids and stood back to admire his work.

The first gluttons were out of their seats. Birthday boy was back at his post picking up a telephone and mumbling, 'Cakes guys' to his colleagues but scouts were already cruising the area, like sharks smelling one part blood per billion parts water. The first two lunged instinctively at their quarry, reaching, cramming, chewing. Other diners joined the throng, fist over flailing, grabbing fist. The desk was slick with cream smears and a box was tossed to the floor. The feeding frenzy reached fever pitch.

The larger beasts sank back from the feast now, gorged on chocolate and sponge and icing. Smaller, more timid ones crept up to select dainty fondant fancies and pecked nervously over the remaining crumbs.

The office was noisy with the hum of conversation mumbled through stuffed cheeks. Birthday boy ended his phone call and walked over to the cake table. "Is there one left for me?" He ventured.

It's a cruel world out there. Eat or be eaten.

The last gas station on earth

The Pontiac thumped over a pothole and Frank watched the fuel gauge lift then settle on 'Empty' again. "Fuck it," he breathed and hit the steering wheel hard. They had passed a Texaco 10 miles back and were now running on vapour. "Look," cried Paula, "Gas ahead!" She launched her finger toward a run-down gas station and general store in the distance.

Frank pulled onto the cracked cement beside a solitary ancient pump. Is that gas or paraffin he wondered. His gaze took in the peeling paint, ice machine and an ages old Coca Cola sign hanging by one screw. "Stay here Paula." He shut the car door slowly and stepped past a deck chair faded and stained with age. Through the window past the hand-written 'Open' sign he could make out an old boy, a wad of chewing tobacco in his cheek.

A bell clanged loudly as he pushed the door and somewhere out back a dog started barking gruffly and ominously. The skeletal figure waved a thin hand and in a barely intelligible accent rattled, "If it's gas you want, go through and talk to Billy." A fly buzzed in Frank's ear and he slapped it away as he nodded, "Thanks."

In the back sat Billy and three friends grinning with menace. A rotting Plymouth Fury sitting up on bricks was visible in the back yard and a German Shepherd sat in its shade, tongue out panting. Frank thought of Paula sitting in the Pontiac holding the battery powered fan to her pretty face.

Suddenly Billy shrieked, "It's party time!" His pals stood up, chair legs scraping on the bare wood floor. Frank turned and saw his way back blocked by the muzzle of a 12-bore shot gun in the hands of the old boy. As his eyes darted frantically for another exit he heard Paula shouting. The shout became a siren winding up to full scream. Then silence.

"You fucking bastards! What have you done?" The gun barrel pushed closer and touched his temple. Frank screwed his eyes shut and a sharp metallic click rang out. When Frank opened them Paula was sitting in the passenger seat of the Pontiac lighting a cigarette and smiling. "Wake up hon', rest over. We need to drive on and get that gas now or we ain't never gonna make it to Huntsville!"