Category: Humour

100 Word Challenge for Grown Ups Week #64

Posted on Posted in HumourTagged , , , 17 Comments

Julia doesn’t like Halloween, I can’t say I’m over keen either but it’s an excuse to be silly so here goes with A Recipe for a witch perhaps you would like to write one as well?

Five Century Cackle Buns

Take nineteen apples, bobbed and then spat out. Chop and mix into a litre of pepto bismol. Mince the fingers of seven ladies and soak them in mackerel juice for three Sabbaths.

Whisk all together with sprinklings of powdered caterpillar, the feathers of a dodo, the warts of a crone and an eyebrow from an Arctic chimp.

Bring to the boil, strain through a hermits sock, saving the mashings for later. Tip into fifty individual dragon’s egg shells and bake.

Mix the mashings with hair removal cream and spread over cooled buns.

Enjoy with a large mug of boiled bluebottles.

100 Word Challenge For Grown ups Week# 62

Posted on Posted in flash fiction, Humour, WritingTagged , , , 16 Comments

You know sometimes I think that I can’t get any dafter and then I surpass myself! Julia’s prompt this week is …it can’t be that time…. and as usual we can add another 100 words , making 105 this week.

Out of the dark

I feel squashed. I’ve tried pushing those hard bits, but they don’t seem to move now. It’s even difficult to stretch my legs and kick properly. We’ve both got hiccups, and I’ve been upside down for ages with my head in a vice, perhaps she’s been drinking?

Wait a minute.

Oy, I do the shoving, stop pushing on my behind! Agh, I don’t bend that way, let me just . . . put . . . my . . . arm . . . down.

That’s better.

What’s that now? Surely it can’t be that time already. It’s bright out there. I’ll need some sunglasses.

 

Join in and read more at http://jfb57.wordpress.com/2012/10/15/100-word-challenge-for-grown-ups-week62/

Tis the season for Arachnids

Posted on Posted in canon eos 450d, Gardens, Humour, Nature, Photography, WritingTagged , , , , , , 28 Comments

Yes, it’s that time of year again. I leave the house in the morning and as I walk down the front steps I’m trapped, wrapped up in the finest silk, mobbed by a gang of speckled monsters who to me are giants. They cross a metre of path to stretch their tightrope from plant to tree and back a dozen times and each morning I have to be the first to break through. I grab a section checking that the beast is as far away as possible, too close and they rebound back and in a blink they are up your arm. They clearly think I’m one of them because they head for my hair given half a chance. But how do they make those long ropes? If a spider is three inches wide – believe me these are – then to make a strand across my path they have to leap twelve times their own width, all the time spinning and  releasing the strand. Or, perhaps they dangle their way slowly to the ground, spinning on the way and when they reach land they run across it and climb back up the next bush or wall to the opposite side? I know, I know but have you got any better ideas? 

This one was between me and the raspberries, I swear its a conspiracy, someone is plotting to scare me away from my favourite fruit. I have to self administer CBT to pick them. 

and this one was settling in the Rosemary for the night. I know their plans, it can’t be much longer before they want to sleep in my room. They want a warm, dark corner to lurk in until spring and then they will lay their tiny eggs. They will wrap them in a cocoon of white  silk, go and die in one of my shoes, and then as soon as its warm enough outside, three million horrid albino spiderlings will emerge. I’ll spend winter in fear. You think I’m crazy, irrational? Well when I was young, I was bitten on the back of my neck by a big, black, hairy spider and ever since I can’t bear the little horrors. I’m not alone am I?

Why take the 15 mile way home if you can take the 30?

Posted on Posted in Devon, Humour, WritingTagged , , , , , 19 Comments

Otherwise known as Lucid Gypsy rambling.

Last evening I went out with two of my closest friends. It’s a monthly event, we take turns driving, so that in theory two of us can have a couple of drinks, but actually we don’t drink much alcohol at all, it’s more about the chat and something to eat in a country pub. Two of us live about four miles apart and the other one lives fifteen miles away out in the sticks, and has done for around ten years. Jackie, the friend who lives nearest to me drove last night and sadly she doesn’t have the best sense of direction. Despite having been to Buckerell some 70 or 80 times she needs directions, but really its one straight main road, the A30, and then four miles up a narrow winding lane. We had a great evening with lots of fun, silliness and too many peas. After dropping Sonja home, we headed back down the lane, gabbling away and after a couple of – turn left – straight up – yes take the slip road, we were safely back on the A30 with twelve miles to go. This is the point where I stop thinking about giving directions and ask instead about her planned weekend in Spain. Mistake.

‘Is this the right way, I don’t recognise it?’

I sit bolt upright, ‘Um no this is the Exmouth road, you’d better turn around and head back to the roundabout, take the slip road back again.’

‘Is this the way?’

I should mention that if I’m driving I wear glasses, without them, in the dark I can’t see well enough to drive in unlit areas. ‘Um, I don’t know but it’s the right general direction, I think it said Rockbeare . . . yep this is the old road, Rockbeare Straights, we came this way once before.’

We drive about five miles. Road works, road ahead closed. We slow down, the road is empty except for the guys resurfacing, and Jackie sees the sign for Sowton Village.

‘Oh that way is okay we can get to Frog Lane from there and then Clyst St Mary’ she said.

‘Sowton is a dead end, I’ve walked across the cow fields to Clyst St Mary but there’s no road.’

‘Yeah there is, there must be’ she was adamant.

‘All right go for it,’ we drive through a silent village, its 11.30 by now and Jackie heads confidently towards a no through road sign. ‘That’s the way to the fields, bear right and try that, but I don’t know where it leads. The single track becomes a grassy track then meets a fence. We can see the lights of the motorway two miles from home just ahead, buts there’s no way through. A difficult fifteen point turn and we head back the lane, to the road workers who give us directions, complex ones that would work if I could read the signs.But we think we get it, and realise that another car who also asked the way, is convinced that we know where we are and is following us. Turn right at the pub they said, then double back towards the  Daisy Mount junction, well it might have been the pub but it was all closed up and it was too late to take the turning. I started to get my bearings though; we were heading back the old road that led to the airport. Jackie agreed and took over again, this was her territory, just a couple of miles cross country from her house.

‘Aylesbeare, that’s it just up here.’ I didn’t think you needed to go to Aylesbeare to get to the parallel Sidmouth road but I left her to it. And we drive quickly with the other car in pursuit, and no sign of life around for a couple more miles. We approach the village and I squint at a right hand turning sign but friend keeps going. We leave the village behind and start a steady climb. Soon the quiet is broken by the petrol warning alarm, 20 miles of fuel left and we didn’t know the way. I’m just wondering if I have enough phone battery left for the sat nav to work when friend says ‘I wish we had a sat nav . . . what you’ve got it on your phone, why didn’t you try that before?’ to be honest I forget it’s there, I don’t get lost! Unless I’m being driven by Jackie, on the way home from Buckerell.

My suspicions were confirmed, we shouldn’t have gone through Aylesbeare, but if we had turned right there, we wouldn’t now be heading for Ottery St Mary. But if this lane reached the common, it would be creepy especially with someone following us, but we should then be able to turn right.

YES! Sidmouth road and we limped to a petrol station. After a – diversion – of about 15 miles, we got to my house having taken an hour and a half instead of twenty five minutes.

Lessons learnt.

Always take my glasses even if I’m not driving.

Never think I need not concentrate on the road myself if Jackie is driving me anywhere after dark.

Remember my phone has a sat nav and take my charger so I can use it.

I have a stranger sense of humour than I realised, most people wouldn’t think it was a huge hilarious adventure getting lost in the deep east Devon lanes at midnight, with not even moonlight to guide us.

Five Things They Don’t tell You about Getting Older

Posted on Posted in Creative writing, Humour, Old age, WritingTagged , , , , 23 Comments

When you’re young, skirts and trousers with elasticated waistbands are just ‘old lady clothes’ and you take it for granted that they need the comfort, while knowing that it will never happen to you. Wrong. Elasticated waistbands are manufacturer’s way of making some money from older ladies who are not catered for by designers. They fail to cash in on the silver pound, sticking instead to the young, slim or even emaciated because they make their clothes look better. What they fail to take into account is that even really slim women change body shape with age. You can be small but still have a bug tummy, no waist, no bottom and that hip spring – the difference between waist and hip measurement – decreases from about twelve inches when you are twenty five and a size twelve or fourteen to about six inches when you are fifty even if you still have thirty eight inch hips! So your choice is  whether to  buy skirts or trousers that fit your waist and balloon out like a parachute around your hips, never, ever do your top buttons up, or . . . elastic and crimplene.

Your eyelashes start to disappear, what happens is that they grow inwards. They creep down through some special internal follicles until they reach your upper lip and chin where they multiply like cell division and burst out forming a lush growth to warm your face in winter.

Old ladies can’t wear pretty brassieres. Pretty ones are aimed at young women whose breasts have not yet become matronly. Matronly bosoms appear around your late forties. Oh yes they do, even if you always wore a 34A you will suddenly need a 36F, and the wide straps that go with bras in those kind of sizes. Woe betide those of you who successfully seek out The Thin Strap, because you will have deep chasms in your shoulders. Nope, to contain your new found pitta breads you will require inch wide straps and side scaffolding.

Now, we expect to gain some lines on our faces don’t we? They are lines of wisdom and character of course, and a way of keeping the beauty industry going with our futile attempts to stay young. But what is this crepe like thing happening to my forearms? No one told me about that. And why don’t the magazines recommend that you wear gloves twenty four seven, to stop your hands looking like some haggard witch’s? Because they get paid to advertise hand cream!

Granny shoes. How could they wear such ugly things? This generation didn’t invent ridiculous – oops I mean delicious – heels, platforms and wedges that you need a mounting block to climb into. No, I had them too and could walk miles, dance all night and then walk home again in them. I didn’t live in them, I loved flip flops too. They were never as lovely as the ones around now. I have some gorgeous jewelled and sequined ones, in fact several pairs; I keep buying them in the hope that some will be comfortable enough to walk miles in. If I try that, the impact of every step I take resounds its painful way up through my calves and knees, leaving me hobbling slowly the next day. So, it’s nice comfy cushiony soles for me, little heels on occasion, but even then they would have to be Footgloves. What’s happens to our feet? Well apparently we lose subcutaneous fat from our soles as we get older, who knew that? What I do know is where mine went. Around my middle.

If anyone can warn me of any other little surprises I have to look forward to I would be deeply thrilled to know. Meanwhile, where is my foot spa, my feet are killing me.

Banana Spam Nuttiness

Posted on Posted in Humour, WritingTagged , , , , 43 Comments

Spam is becoming really  funny these days. Not funny  that it exists of course, but the lengths they go with it. In my early days of blogging I didn’t get the spam protection thing, why would anyone want to send spam my  way? I would get the odd few spam comments, but not take any notice or even delete them, they just sat there. Then I read how some peoples comments ended up in the spam box for no reason, so I started to check and delete it all. The volume has gradually increased, I wonder why? Is it because I have lots of followers  now? What do they hope to gain?

Here is some recent stuff, have any of you received similar ones?                                               Spam comments on my post ‘pets’

My brother suggested I might like this website. He was totally right. This post actually made my day. You can not imagine just how much time I had spent for this information! Thanks! 

Very nice info and straight to the point. I don’t know if this is really the best place to ask but do you folks have any thoughts on where to get some professional writers? Thank you.

Received from ‘healthy banana nut muffins’

Comments on ‘Sunrise’

I and also my buddies have already been studying the excellent ideas from your website and then instantly I had an awful feeling I had not thanked the web blog owner for those techniques. These ladies had been for this reason very interested to study them and now have truly been making the most of those things. Appreciation for truly being simply helpful and then for getting certain incredible themes millions of individuals are really needing to know about. Our own honest apologies for not expressing appreciation to earlier.

You are a very smart individual!  Comment by ‘ banana nut muffins recipe’

I was recommended this web site by my cousin. I’m not sure whether this post is written by him as no one else know such detailed about my problem. You are incredible! Thanks!  By a name that is unmentionable!

I would like to express some thanks to this writer for rescuing me from this type of crisis. After searching through the world wide web and getting techniques which are not productive, I believed my entire life was gone. Being alive devoid of the answers to the difficulties you have solved by means of this guide is a critical case, and ones which may have badly damaged my career if I had not noticed your site. That expertise and kindness in taking care of a lot of things was tremendous. I am not sure what I would have done if I had not discovered such a solution like this. I can at this point look ahead to my future. Thanks for your time very much for the expert and sensible help. I won’t be reluctant to refer the blog to any individual who needs and wants counselling about this area.  By ‘Banana nut muffins’ again.

Keep functioning , fantastic job! bananas again.

I’ll do my best to keep functioning! All the banana people are from different IP addresses, seriously weird. My blog isn’t about food, I’ve posted one recipe here and that was way back, so why the muffins? So far banana muffins account for around 20 comments. What type of spam do you get? Please tell! I’m off for a daily delete now.

Inside Wedding Photography

Posted on Posted in Humour, Photography, WritingTagged , , , 27 Comments

I’m privileged to know a special guy who is a very creative and professional wedding photographer, so I thought I would have a chat to him to find out about what the work involves.

Steve, how long is a wedding day for the photographer and do you get well fed?

It tends to begin at about 9am and we stay until after the first dance. Food – ha no, once when someone ordered some sandwiches, but we sneak off with a packed lunch when the party eat. It can be a long day! The problem is that venues would charge as a wedding guest if they provided food for us, and that’s an extra burden for the couple.

How frustrating, I bet the food they have is amazing sometimes. What is it like working with the families?

Difficult because we have to find the right balance, we need to remain in authority without stepping on toes. Cheekiness can sometimes get results but they don’t usually listen, so occasionally you just have to shout.

It’s become a tradition for female photographers to be there while the bride gets ready and I know you have recently spent time with a groom and groomsmen before they left for the ceremony. I imagine that was fun?

It was strange, when it’s the girls it’s very special but with guys . . . well there’s nothing to prepare, they just get dressed, maybe fiddle with a tie and buttonhole but that’s it. First they sat around all morning watching footie on television, having a drink and winding each other up. They tend to be quite chilled in church but some panic and it’s my job to try to reassure them, I’m the only point of contact as everyone else is sitting down. Ideally we get some informal shots.

How do you cope when the bride is . . . shall we say . . . no oil painting? Are there ways to make her look good?

Hahaha, yes there are lots of techniques! Shoot from above if they are short – I’m tall! Never use direct flash, bounce it from the ceiling. Make the background really bright, overexposing reduces shadows and makes them look thinner. A shallow depth of field for close up portraits, ring flash will softens feature and. with the larger brides; say with back boobs, you have to look for the best angles. Never shoot profiles of a large nose; they won’t thank you for it.

Have you witnessed any arguments, the wedding fight?

Only families getting tetchy really, but that’s why I leave after the first dance – before they get drunk.

Have you had any really bad venues?

Yes, the back room of a pub decorated like a night club, with neon cocktail bar signs, led lights and lasers shining around a pitch black room. About 30 people, mainly grandparent’s age, and very, very loud club music. It was pretty difficult to get decent photos. Another time there was a hotel with threadbare carpets, buckets in the toilets where the roof leaked, really scabby inside, but nice outside.

Goodness that sounds like a nightmare, Church or civil ceremony, which is best?

Civil ceremonies are easier. Churches have better results but vicars can be difficult saying only one photo inside for instance. Civil ceremonies are good for close up shots, little details like the rings.

What has been your best ever venue?

Wickham church, followed by the Marriott in Meon valley, a stunning hotel and a perfect day.

Any really unusual places?

HMS Warrior, a Victorian battleship in Portsmouth harbour, it was Great Britain’s first iron clad warship. It was small, intimate, lovely.

Steve, do you ever get emotional at weddings?

Nah, apart from annoyance and that has to be hidden!

That must be tough, have you had any major disasters?

My camera stopped working once but I work with my sister and she had a spare.

Anything funny you can remember?

Loads of things yes. On one occasion the groom’s belt needed an extra hole, so his mum tried a skewer, which didn’t work. So then dad decided to use his electric drill – while the groom was wearing the belt!

Thanks Steve, it all sounds fascinating and fun but I don’t think I would have the patience even if the pay is good.

Ah but, what people don’t realise when they are planning the big day, is just how much work we have to do behind the scenes. Correspondence, checking the venue in advance when possible and lots of photo editing afterwards to create their dream albums. 

 

Puffins, Lottery Tickets and the Crazy Polish Woman

Posted on Posted in Creative writing, Humour, WritingTagged , , , , 11 Comments

Lucid Gypsy and the Crazy Polish Woman went for a lunchtime stroll and as usual we tried to put the world to rights, quite a task in half an hour and we soon got bored with trying! We moved on to the lottery, her desire to win, combined with the impossibility of that, when she doesn’t buy a ticket. She has bought a little globe and wants to go to as many places as possible in the world. Nothing unusual about that is there? Except that when she wins, she will spend the first £5000 visiting Iceland. Again not particularly unusual, I wouldn’t mind myself as long as it was in midsummer. She has a mission though. Puffins. She loves them, and has come across a fact that I for one did not know.

So she wants to travel to Iceland to warn them to leave. Ideally she will speak to each of them individually. Of course we debated whether these conversations should be carried out in English, Polish or Squawk (something she does when she gets excited, angry or just plain Crazy). It has to be Squawk, I don’t think there are many Puffins in Poland – but will be happy to be proved wrong – and they tend to avoid people in England, choosing instead to hang around on Lundy or the Scilly’s.

Aside from getting close enough in Iceland to have a conversation with them, of course there is the problem of recognising which ones you have warned already. Unless you are a Puffin they all look pretty much the same. So if they aren’t prepared to leave immediately, then some sort of label would be needed. Perhaps the ones that CPW has enlightened can be persuaded to spread the word in Puffin speak, and then she may be able to see some geysers and glaciers, in the day long day with the left over money.

She really is very worried about them and a world without Puffins would of course be terrible. If you are a follower of some of the celebrity chefs, you may already know what her fears are. If not, well please stop reading if you are of a sensitive disposition. You see it’s because they are eaten. Icelanders consider raw Puffin heart to be a delicacy.

I am going to buy CPW a lottery ticket.