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Corona quarantine diary
Objavljivač niti: Mervyn Henderson

Mervyn Henderson  Identity Verified
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@Lingua5B Nov 23, 2020

Time to try and fix something ...

Back in October I got unnecessarily stroppy with Lingua5B about certain comments. I was under a lot of pressure at the time, but it was no excuse for my rudeness, and I'd like to apologise unreservedly to Lingua5B here.

I would have done so on the same thread, but it was locked quite soon afterwards. It was "Do you translate texts that have an agenda/bias that you don't personally agree with?" (OP Barbara Cochran, MFA).

... See more
Time to try and fix something ...

Back in October I got unnecessarily stroppy with Lingua5B about certain comments. I was under a lot of pressure at the time, but it was no excuse for my rudeness, and I'd like to apologise unreservedly to Lingua5B here.

I would have done so on the same thread, but it was locked quite soon afterwards. It was "Do you translate texts that have an agenda/bias that you don't personally agree with?" (OP Barbara Cochran, MFA).


Mervyn
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Lingua 5B  Identity Verified
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Oh my. Nov 23, 2020

I can hardly remember that thread. Threads come and go. Nothing to apologize about really, just chill.

Hope everyone on this thread is well in these weird and uncertain times, and your loved ones too.

November 23

I’ll be really missing skiing this year. I heard we need to bribe someone to get a place in a resort this year. I’m wondering, who do I need to bribe? I assume it’ll be for VIPs only.


 

Mervyn Henderson  Identity Verified
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Don't even think about bribery Nov 24, 2020

I'm surprised, nay, shocked, you should be even thinking such a thing ...

No, what you want is blackmail. Bribery usually costs money, but taking advantage of someone's nasty little secret is completely free. The catch is that prison terms are considerably longer if you mess up, but the best part is that you can use it over and over again. Most people think the song "Time after Time" is about undying love, but if one reads between the lines because one's mind is just that little b
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I'm surprised, nay, shocked, you should be even thinking such a thing ...

No, what you want is blackmail. Bribery usually costs money, but taking advantage of someone's nasty little secret is completely free. The catch is that prison terms are considerably longer if you mess up, but the best part is that you can use it over and over again. Most people think the song "Time after Time" is about undying love, but if one reads between the lines because one's mind is just that little bit more warped, one finds that it's actually about undying blackmail:

If you fall, I will catch you, I'll be waiting
Time after time
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Mervyn Henderson  Identity Verified
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Serious stuff Nov 24, 2020

This one contains no sudden phone calls from well-known people, no strange dimensions, and definitely no wavies.

You see, I thought to myself, Better get back to the original reason you started this thread, lad, to chronicle the day-to-day of a people cowed by a vile, unspeakable blight worldwide. So unspeakable, in fact, that everyone's constantly speaking about it, and little else. Admittedly the focus has shifted, and everyone's hopes are being lifted by the prospect of Covid vac
... See more
This one contains no sudden phone calls from well-known people, no strange dimensions, and definitely no wavies.

You see, I thought to myself, Better get back to the original reason you started this thread, lad, to chronicle the day-to-day of a people cowed by a vile, unspeakable blight worldwide. So unspeakable, in fact, that everyone's constantly speaking about it, and little else. Admittedly the focus has shifted, and everyone's hopes are being lifted by the prospect of Covid vaccines here, there and everywhere - Pfizer has one, Oxford has one, Moderna has one, the Russians, the Chinese ...

Pfff. Alternative realities are just so much more attractive most of the time.
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Chris S
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Mervyn Henderson  Identity Verified
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God's left hand Nov 26, 2020

Former England goalkeeper Peter Shilton seems to have put his foot in it with his comment on Diego Maradona's death yesterday. Said he "had greatness, but no sportsmanship". It's been 34 years, but that "Hand of God" still rankles, apparently. And it's not as if the most famous handball of all time was the winning goal, either. Shilton didn't say anything about what they call the Goal of the Century a bit later in the game (wasn't it?), when Maradona took the ball in his own half and dribbled pa... See more
Former England goalkeeper Peter Shilton seems to have put his foot in it with his comment on Diego Maradona's death yesterday. Said he "had greatness, but no sportsmanship". It's been 34 years, but that "Hand of God" still rankles, apparently. And it's not as if the most famous handball of all time was the winning goal, either. Shilton didn't say anything about what they call the Goal of the Century a bit later in the game (wasn't it?), when Maradona took the ball in his own half and dribbled past six or seven English players to score, not using his right foot with it even once.

But then, that game was played only 4 years after the Falklands/Malvinas debacle, so it's no wonder the Argentinians all saw Maradona as the hero they needed, and all the better if it was at the expense of England.

Like everywhere else, I suppose, it totally displaced the usual Coronavirus News last night, with both the man's great side and his dark side too, likewise well publicised at the time. I don't know how many replays I saw of both those goals yesterday, or how many times I saw him portrayed as God, Dios, but using his number ten, "D10S".

In the later years I saw a few of the "Maradona" programmes on Argentinian TV, one of which was simply called "10", I think, and I did find it hard to swallow the absolute, unconditional, OTT fawning stuff I heard on there, but I suppose you have to be Argentinian to listen to it without batting an eyelid. An Argentinian told me once, after the footage a few years ago of him obviously the worse for wear while watching Argentina play, that over there the man had zero detractors, absolutely zero, and that they could forgive Maradona anything, anything, anything at all.

[Edited at 2020-11-26 11:14 GMT]
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P.L.F.Persio
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P.L.F.Persio  Identity Verified
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Napoli Nov 26, 2020

Mervyn Henderson wrote:

In the later years I saw a few of the "Maradona" programmes on Argentinian TV, one of which was simply called "10", I think, and I did find it hard to swallow the absolute, unconditional, OTT fawning stuff I heard on there, but I suppose you have to be Argentinian to listen to it without batting an eyelid. An Argentinian told me once, after the footage a few years ago of him obviously the worse for wear while watching Argentina play, that over there the man had zero detractors, absolutely zero, and that they could forgive Maradona anything, anything, anything at all.

[Edited at 2020-11-26 11:14 GMT]


And the same goes for Naples, they worshipped him there: https://www.theguardian.com/football/2020/nov/26/naples-pays-its-respects-to-diego-maradona

[Edited at 2020-11-26 12:52 GMT]


Mervyn Henderson
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Mervyn Henderson  Identity Verified
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Mural Nov 26, 2020

There are about 17 pages on Maradona in the paper today, and that Naples mural's on one of them. The photo in The Guardian doesn't seem to show how big the thing actually is, or the angle in our newspaper makes it look much bigger or something, but when I looked at it early this morning I was amazed at how huge it was, like one of those gigantic images of Stalin or someone.

I got talking to a couple of men in Naples a few years ago, and they went on at some length about football and
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There are about 17 pages on Maradona in the paper today, and that Naples mural's on one of them. The photo in The Guardian doesn't seem to show how big the thing actually is, or the angle in our newspaper makes it look much bigger or something, but when I looked at it early this morning I was amazed at how huge it was, like one of those gigantic images of Stalin or someone.

I got talking to a couple of men in Naples a few years ago, and they went on at some length about football and Maradona, but they were more interested in Pepe Reina, who was Napoli's Spanish goalkeeper at the time, or maybe he had been previously.

[Edited at 2020-11-26 13:01 GMT]
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P.L.F.Persio
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expressisverbis
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Another toilet paper shortage? Nov 28, 2020

We may face another toilet paper shortage, but the good news is that we can wipe our butts to some trashy research paper that we can see out there.

Mervyn Henderson
 

Mervyn Henderson  Identity Verified
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The Man with the Gold Sacrum Nov 29, 2020

I’ll keep this as short as I can, because I know you know how it’s going to develop. Don’t think I don’t know you know, you know, because I do know you know, you know. But this time I’ll use the tried-and-tested, well-worn technique known in layman’s terms as ‘A customer rang me the other day’:

A customer rang me the other day: “Hello there,” he chirped. “I’ve got a job for you. Quite technical, though. And very hush-hush, top secret, eyes-only, too. For a go
... See more
I’ll keep this as short as I can, because I know you know how it’s going to develop. Don’t think I don’t know you know, you know, because I do know you know, you know. But this time I’ll use the tried-and-tested, well-worn technique known in layman’s terms as ‘A customer rang me the other day’:

A customer rang me the other day: “Hello there,” he chirped. “I’ve got a job for you. Quite technical, though. And very hush-hush, top secret, eyes-only, too. For a government agency. Weaponry and suchlike. Classified systems. And some customised combat devices for agents in the field, too. Like …”

“Bollocks,” I thought to myself, “I may as well get this over and done with” ... “Like James Bond, you mean?”

“Why, yes, like James Bond, exactly like James Bond, that’s what I was about to say. Now, however did you know I was going to say that? …”

“Oh, just a hunch,” I squawked, as I began to get that familiar all-over tingling feeling again. “A shot in the dark. Yes, like 007 … like James Bond …”



I walked into M’s office in MI5’s ultra-secret London HQ at Thames House, Millbank SW1P 1AE. M looked at his watch. “You’ll be lifted out to Scarawanga’s hideaway in just under half an hour, Bond. Allow me to introduce your partner on the mission today. She’s on appro, working herself up to the 009 position” - he coughed a strangled little cough, and gestured towards a swivel chair with its back to me … “ - James, meet Pussy. Pussy Zero.”

The chair swivelled round to reveal what I could only describe as a bombshell in a white cheesecloth shirt, unnecessarily tight and left unbuttoned way down her chest, revealing a neckline I could see M goggling at every chance he got. Not that I wasn’t too, you understand. I might be a one-woman man, but I’m still a man. Think Jane Russell, but a flame-haired Jane Russell. She stood up on muscled black-stockinged legs that seemed to go on for ever, but eventually ended at a tartan miniskirt. She held out her hand with well-manicured black fingernails:

“Pussy,” she smiled, taking my hand very firmly indeed. “I’m so glad to meet you at long last, 007.”

I bowed slightly as I felt the intense pressure of that iron grip on my right hand. Judging by the sensation arising from my loins, I could see I would have to be careful with that: “Bond,” I said. “James Bond. My pleasure, I’m sure. I don’t think I know anyone called Zero, and I’ve definitely never met anyone called Pussy.”

Pussy Zero’s eyelashes fluttered. More than fluttered, in fact. They fluttered and fluttered so much I half-thought they were going to take off and fly around the office. She touched my arm gently before releasing my hand. “Now, James, that just can’t be true. A man like yourself must have made the acquaintance of many a Pussy,” she gushed.

“Well, er, let’s get you two, um, ready for the off to Scarawanga’s island,” stuttered M, adjusting his trousers as he stood up. “Chopper’s waiting on the helipad.”



The trip out to the island was uneventful. Pussy and I were dropped in a remote corner, and made our way up to the crater that housed Scarawanga’s secret hideaway. We met a few goons on the way, naturally, and dealt with them in the accustomed manner. No guns at this stage, so as not to attract attention. I must say I was impressed with the way Pussy crept up on them and cut their throats with utter ruthlessness, and then nudged, no, shoved their lifeless bodies violently down onto the sand.

Except for the last one, a swarthy chap toting a Thompson. As I watched under cover, Pussy Zero employed a different MO with this man. She winked at me, ripped her shirt halfway across and emerged from behind a rock, wailing and weeping, “Oh, help me, please help me, mistah, oh Lor luvvaduck, I’ve escaped from some blokes what’s trying to sell me orf into slavery, oh please, please help me ...” The bloke stared at the sculptural apparition, put down his gun, and approached her. “It’s all right, missy, it’s all right, you’re safe now,” he babbled, whereupon she knifed him right in the guts, wrenched and twisted the knife upwards, took his gun, bashed his head in with it right there and then, and even spat on him. “Safe? I’ll say I’m safe, you piece of man trash. You useless, useless MAN,” she hissed.

I exhaled slowly. If anyone was going to make 009, it was this girl. And there’d been pure hatred in the word “MAN”. It was as if she was playing with them just for the fun of it.

And finally we were in. I crashed into the lounge of the house, only to be flailed backwards by two unsmiling heavies. They took my Walther, frog-marched me to a long table where Mr Big was sitting, and roped me up to a chair. I’d seen the usual undercover photos, but he seemed much smaller now. A downright insignificant little twerp, really. In his huge sunglasses and khaki army duds, he looked a bit like Kim Yong-Il:

“Good afternoon, Mr Bond. We’ve been expecting you.”

“Expecting me?” I sneered. “You had no idea. My partner and I even killed a few of your men on the way up here, right, Pussy?”

I looked around for Pussy. She was standing there straight and tall, albeit with those strong, long legs of hers wide apart, watching me. The goons had made no attempt to restrain her. She was carrying my Walther. And it was pointed at me:

“Oh no,” I gasped, as she smirked calmly. The MI5 mole had been with me the whole time. “Not you, Pussy. How could you have done this? You treacherous …”

Scarawanga stood up, and walked around the table with some difficulty:

“Yes, Mr Bond. Miss Zero has been passing me information in total secrecy for some time now. But it was only a matter of time before her cover was blown, so I suggested she simply bring you to me. I wanted you to be so close, and yet so far. Today you will die, Bond. And betrayed by your own people, too. You forced my hand. Not long ago we sent a man to kill you at your hotel, but have had no news. I don’t suppose you know anything about that?”

I shrugged. “Maybe the job was too big for him. Maybe you shouldn’t send a child on a man’s errand. Maybe he just … fell apart.” I chuckled a little to myself.

He moved closer to me, and saw I had observed his limping gait.

“Yes, 007, take a good look, and laugh at my unfortunate physical plight. This gold is eating into me day by day. It is a slow process, because it is not pure gold. Perhaps 70%, no more. I had to use certain other metallic additives in the process. And I am well aware of the facetious moniker you and your people have for me. No matter. Soon the entire world will quake at the name of Aloysius Fotheringay Scarawanga III. Take a look at my plans, Mr Bond …”

He pressed a button on the desk, and a huge electronic map of the world noiselessly emerged from the wall, with six lights blinking on it. “The Russians will pay me one billion dollars for what I am about to do, 007. You can see I have missiles aimed at London, New York, Washington, Paris, Brussels and Frankfurt. They will be fired out of the crater on this very island, and will shortly raze the western democracies’ power centres to the ground.”

“You’re a madman, Scarawanga. You’re stark, staring mad.”

He nodded in his ridiculous sunglasses. “Perhaps, 007. But soon I will be a stark, staring, extremely rich madman. And you, Mr Bond, will be a dead man.” He turned to Pussy Zero, who still had her gun pointing at me. “Kill him, Miss Zero.”

She hesitated, shimmied across to him, and whispered in his ear. He nodded again. “Very well, my dear.” Then he snapped his fingers, and made for the door along with the goons. Pussy did not move. Scarawanga turned as one of the heavies opened the door for him:

“Goodbye, Mr Bond. It has been a pleasure. I leave you in Pussy’s capable hands. Apparently she wants a little … sport with you. Before she blows your brains out. Please do not be late, Miss Zero. We leave from the beach in one hour.” The door closed, and they were gone.

“Well, James,” Pussy purred as she sashayed over to me on my chair and placed her hands on my shoulders, “a whole hour. Sixty minutes. Three thousand six hundred seconds. Think of all the nasty and pleasant things that can happen in that kind of timeline.”

“Yes, Pussy,” I snarled. “Lots of things. I have a fair idea what happens next. What probably happens next is what happens to Clint Eastwood in ‘The Rookie’. Also tied up in a chair at the mercy of the beautiful, villainous Sonia Braga. Have you seen that film? All scornful, sultry and sullen, she mounts her helpless victim, blatantly pleasuring herself on his manhood, to and fro, upwards and downwards, from side to side, not to mention diagonally and orthogonally, and finally quivering and trembling and shaking and panting and moaning in ecstasy as she explodes all …” I broke off, realising this wasn’t sounding quite right. Open to misinterpretation, perhaps …

“Something like that, 007,” she breathed. “You’re right, I saw that film too. Pleasuring herself, yes. But was it really such a one-way pleasure? Was it, James?”

I looked away, flushing slightly.

“Because”, she went on, “I also remember the way Eastwood gamely stares up at her lithe sweaty body gyrating and throwing itself about wildly and wantonly on top of him, with nary a word of outrage or protest. In fact, such is his passivity during the entire scene that one might even argue he seems to be … rather enjoying it.”

Oh dear. That right hand again …

Her fingers were on the hem of her miniskirt now. Slowly she began to roll it up … “But, James, I am not like Sonia Braga. And I am not like many, many other women. In fact, I am not like most other women you have met ...” Her hand fumbled underneath, and with a sudden jerk of her wrist up and out I realised the terrible truth. “You may be licensed to kill, James, but you might say that Pussy Zero is licensed to fill ...”

My jaw dropped as I stared at what was on display. “Yes, Pussy Zero, 007. I chose that name for a reason. Pussy. Zero. My real name is Phyllis, in fact. Back in the day, at boarding school in Switzerland, they laughed at me, you know. They called me Phyllis the Phallus. All smarmy and giggling as they pumped their little fists up and down in front of them whenever I appeared, those teenage girlies. Yes, they laughed at me. They did. Oh, they did at first. But all that changed, James, when they realised what Phyllis the Phallus had to offer them. An education, James. I taught those girls. After lights-out in our dorm, in one of the world’s most conservative, sheltered academic establishments for young ladies, night after night I instructed my increasingly willing peers. I taught them how to pleasure men - if they chose to do such a ridiculous thing – or how to tempt them, deny them, or punish them, yes, why not, punish the male sex, and how to take their pleasure from men too, but as women in command, women in the driving seat. I took each and every one of my little protégées, and I sent them out prepared for Life, James, with a sex education they were never going to get from dissecting frogs and sniggering at photos of reproductive organs in old Miss Pettigrew’s biology classes in Geneva.”

“And now, every chance I get, 007, I ridicule and torment men. The way men ridiculed and tormented me when they found out my little secret. Men have to pay for making me a pariah.”

She moved closer. “And so, Mr Bond, prepare for meltdown. But don’t fret, please – after all, it’s every straight man’s innermost fantasy …”

“Oh, mother,” I breathed. “Oh, mummy.”

She tossed her head proudly. “Mummy can’t help you now, Bond. But say hello to Daddy ...”

It was then that the door burst open and a small figure hurtled across the room, knocking Pussy sideways and jolting the gun out of her hands. The weapon skidded across the floor under a commode. There was no mistaking the tanned legs, the blonde hair, the stunning Britt Ekland features …

“008!” I gasped. “Jane Goodbody! My girl. My love. What the hell …?”

TO BE CONTINUED …



ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS: Thanks to P.L.F. Persio for choosing the title at a time of desperate indecision on my part. With absolutely no context or content to go on, she was simply given a choice of two, one for this Bond III, and one by default for the now inevitable Bond IV. And I think she made the right choice, considering the kind of stuff that goes down in Bond IV. I can say no more ...


[Edited at 2020-11-29 10:19 GMT]

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[Edited at 2020-11-29 11:28 GMT]

[Edited at 2020-11-29 12:01 GMT]

[Edited at 2020-11-29 12:07 GMT]

[Edited at 2020-11-29 15:32 GMT]

[Edited at 2020-11-29 16:22 GMT]
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P.L.F.Persio
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Chris S
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Beatriz Ramírez de Haro
 

P.L.F.Persio  Identity Verified
Holandija
Local time: 10:07
Član (2010)
engleski na italijanski
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Chapeau, monsieur Henderson! Nov 29, 2020

Mervyn Henderson wrote:

The Man with the Gold Sacrum



Written with the usual wit and panache, bravo! While I was reading, I remembered this immortal song – Lola by The Kinks:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NFwP2huyNzg


Mervyn Henderson
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Chris S
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Mervyn Henderson  Identity Verified
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Kinky Nov 29, 2020

Thank you very much, P.L.F.!

I used to have that one on my earphone play list for running or the gym. A great clangy sound. And some good lines, too - "Girls will be boys, and boys will be girls - It's a mixed-up world ..."

Maybe I should have had Pussy Zero put it on the CD player during her little talk with Bond ...


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P.L.F.Persio
 

Mervyn Henderson  Identity Verified
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30 November Nov 30, 2020

And a fine St Andrew's Day to Scottish people everywhere, too. Cabers being tossed in celebration up and down the country, no doubt, plus haggis washed down with pints of heavy, and Irn Bru for the kids, to the skirl of the bagpipes. I don't think "skirl" is used with anything but bagpipes, is it?

As for haggis, I remember haggis and chips was on offer at the chippy in Stranraer (and probably at all the chippies in the town - as far as I remember, there were dozens of them), but I
... See more
And a fine St Andrew's Day to Scottish people everywhere, too. Cabers being tossed in celebration up and down the country, no doubt, plus haggis washed down with pints of heavy, and Irn Bru for the kids, to the skirl of the bagpipes. I don't think "skirl" is used with anything but bagpipes, is it?

As for haggis, I remember haggis and chips was on offer at the chippy in Stranraer (and probably at all the chippies in the town - as far as I remember, there were dozens of them), but I never tried it then, and I never tried it ever. Maybe I should have. Maybe I will, if I ever go back to Stranraer, while I wait to take the boat across. "Haggis supper, please." - "Och aye, will ye be wantin' salt and vinegar on yon wee haggis the noo, laddie?" "Er, I've no idea. Does haggis need salt and vinegar? ..."

San Andrés doesn't mean much over here, unless you happen to be called Andrés. But Andreses and non-Andreses alike will be delighted to read the headline in the rag today: "Euskadi exits the red zone." Meaning there are now less than 500 Covid cases per 100,000 inhabitants. I resist the urge to scream "Hooray!" Today the no-bars-no-restaurants thing was supposed to end at midnight, but - wisely - they've now extended it, as I think I mentioned at one point, to after the public holiday on 8 December. So you can imagine what the night of 9 December will be like around here. And I say "wisely", but no matter when they do it, we should brace ourselves for a right old binge through to January, and 1,000 cases per 100,000 inhabitants. You can call me pessimistic, but it's not me, really. It's just my pessimism.

Talking of wise, one of the debates for the upcoming not-so-festive season concerns family gatherings. No more than six people recommended per household, but there seems to be some doubt as to whether children are included in the count. The paper carries a cartoon of Mary and Joseph with their baby. Joseph says: "Well, if they include the kid in the end, that makes six of us with the Wise Men. We won't be able to invite the shepherds after all."



[Edited at 2020-11-30 09:11 GMT]

[Edited at 2020-11-30 09:12 GMT]

[Edited at 2020-11-30 09:14 GMT]
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Wise Men Nov 30, 2020

Actually, I lied before. A bit of localisation. Joseph didn't say "Wise Men" in the cartoon, he said the "Three Kings". Which brings up another problem in this country - the festivities don't end on the morning of 2 January, because, like in some other countries, I believe (Italy?), kids get their presents on Kings' Day, 6 January. On the night of 5 January up and down the land, streets are cordoned off around 5 or 6 pm to enable Their Royal Majesties Melchor, Gaspar and Baltasar to throw out sw... See more
Actually, I lied before. A bit of localisation. Joseph didn't say "Wise Men" in the cartoon, he said the "Three Kings". Which brings up another problem in this country - the festivities don't end on the morning of 2 January, because, like in some other countries, I believe (Italy?), kids get their presents on Kings' Day, 6 January. On the night of 5 January up and down the land, streets are cordoned off around 5 or 6 pm to enable Their Royal Majesties Melchor, Gaspar and Baltasar to throw out sweets to screaming children from their carriage float as it passes down the main drag. Families start to wander back home around 9 or 10 with the excited kids in tow, hopefully worn out and ready for bed as soon as they enter the house. Giving the parents time to arrange the prezzies, see.

I prefer the Santa Claus thing. Letters written well in advance to Santa Claus, North Pole (or was it the South Pole?), posted, and duly torn up in their thousands at the Post Office later, perhaps two minutes sitting on Santa's knee in a department store telling him you want a Scalextric for Christmas if he knows what's good for him, and it's all over by 26 December bar the shouting, meaning New Year's Eve, but then the whole world has that on the same day.

The Basques have their own 24/25 December Santa Claus too, as an alternative to Spain's Three January Kings, a mysterious fat bearded bloke carrying a sack of coal, called Olentzero. But, in recent years, publicity in relation to Anglo-Saxon customs and traditions such as Hallowe'en and Santa Claus has been gradually creeping in, and some people told me a few years ago that these days the children practically expect the trilogy of presents from Santa Claus, Olentzero, and the Three Kings too. Ee, kids today. They don't know they're born etc. etc.

[Edited at 2020-11-30 10:36 GMT]

[Edited at 2020-11-30 10:41 GMT]

[Edited at 2020-11-30 12:35 GMT]
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expressisverbis
Portugalija
Local time: 09:07
Član (2015)
engleski na portugalski
+ ...
Home sweet home with some fun Nov 30, 2020

On the eve of the bank holidays (30th November and 7th December), shops will close at 3pm and nobody is allowed to go out.
We can leave home during these period only in an emergency or if we need to go to work, return home, go for a short walk or walk a pet.
We also have travel restrictions over the December bank holiday weekends...
My home sweet home can't stand me anymore.
So, let's have a bit of fun!

coronavirus-funny-jokes-2014-5e74b932c3f30__700






[Edited at 2020-11-30 13:54 GMT]

[Edited at 2020-11-30 13:54 GMT]


Mervyn Henderson
Rachel Fell
Chris S
P.L.F.Persio
Zibow Retailleau
 

Mervyn Henderson  Identity Verified
Španija
Local time: 10:07
španski na engleski
+ ...
POKRETAČ TEME
Playing with fire Nov 30, 2020

I've never been very good with children. I don't know how they work, and I can't remember how I used to work either. The only weapon I have w¡th children (maybe weapon isn't the best choice of words, but you know what I mean) is humour. But it doesn't always work:

The other day I was in the company of some people and their kid, maybe 8 years old, who just grunted at me when he was told to say hello. They'd been lighting candles in the house, and there was a box of matches on the ta
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I've never been very good with children. I don't know how they work, and I can't remember how I used to work either. The only weapon I have w¡th children (maybe weapon isn't the best choice of words, but you know what I mean) is humour. But it doesn't always work:

The other day I was in the company of some people and their kid, maybe 8 years old, who just grunted at me when he was told to say hello. They'd been lighting candles in the house, and there was a box of matches on the table. Those industrial-sized matches, the big ones, so you don't burn your fingers during long lighting operations, and a correspondingly large box. I picked up the matches, looked at the sullen kid, and rattled the box.

"Using only this, and I don't mean by lighting any matches" (safety first, of course, can't give the sprog any ideas), I said, "how can you bring together all the rabbits in a radius of five kilometres?"

He stared at me. "What's a radius?"

Of course. See? These are the things I don't make allowance for. Don't have the practice. I rephrased it a little:

"Oh, right. Erm, doesn't matter. Using only this box of matches, how can you bring together all the rabbits living within five kilometres of your house?"

Same dead-eyed stare. He shrugged.

Triumphantly, I took one of the matches out, stuck it in a corner of the box, closed up the box on it, so it looked a bit like a radio, held it to my mouth and said: "Calling all rabbits. Calling all rabbits. Meeting at this location in five minutes. Over and out."

More staring. He was pretty good at the staring, I'll give him that. "That's not a real radio," he said. "And rabbits can't understand us."

His mother nudged me. "He's a little intense," she said, nodding proudly.

"He's a little twat," I thought. I heaved a sigh. Don't children pretend and make things up anymore?





[Edited at 2020-11-30 14:03 GMT]
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Chris S
expressisverbis
P.L.F.Persio
Zibow Retailleau
Beatriz Ramírez de Haro
 
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