Conversation On A Train.

Hi Peeps,

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All the best to you upon this fine, sunny morning.

I think that it could best be described as cold….yet bracing!

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Big H is off to the doctors this morning, because I made him an appointment after talking with my brother at the weekend.

He is going to ask to be referred to an expert on tropical diseases so that he can, once and for all, find out if he still has parasites in his skin, or whether  that unfortunate experience was just a once in a lifetime thing and could not continue to be ongoing for ten years.

If nothing else, it will relieve his mind, one way or the other.

It is always best to know!

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I think I told you that this Christmas will be the first one we have spent without at least one of our boys at home, for almost forty years.

This is because they now have to visit their in-laws every other year…and it is only fair to do so…so this Xmas will be very different.

A bit like when we first got married, but probably with a lot less sex….and a lot more complaining.

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When Big H was abroad for three years on his own, my sons frequently used to invite me down to stay with them in their London Flat.

I was great going there on the train, but I used to feel quite grumpy on the way home to my own house.

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I remember one particular journey, when I was sitting in the window seat, and I became aware that the rather elegant older woman next to me kept looking at me.

I knew that if I looked at her she would talk to me and I did not feel like it, obviously because I was in a grumpy mood, so I just bloodymindedly stared out of the window for a long, long time.

The journey itself takes about three and a half hours from station to station.

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Eventually, my better nature reasserted itself, and I stopped glaring out of the window and just sat back in my seat.

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‘Hello’, said the elegant older lady, ‘How far are you going?’

Then a conversation ensued, as it always does.

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It was not long before she asked me if she could tell me something that she had never told anyone else, not even her own grown up children.

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She had been married for most of her life to the most wonderful man, and they had always remained madly in love, and devoted to each other.

She said that he had been as handsome as a film star, but he had somehow been extremely unphotogenic, and never took a good photograph.

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As luck would have it, her beloved husband eventually developed cancer and became extremely ill and bedridden.

She had always looked after him by herself, as she wanted to have him to herself as much as possible, for as long as she possibly could.

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One day, towards the end, he asked her to go and get their camera and take a photograph of him.

Although surprised, because of his usual dislike of his awful photographs, she did as he wanted and then put the camera up on top of the wardrobe and forgot about it, immersed in the slog of being the only carer.

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Eventually he died, and she bravely kept a stiff upper lip in order to get through the funeral and the kind conversations with family and friends, followed by dealing with the the will and adapting to the general rearrangement of her life.

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In time she came across the camera again and took the roll of film to be developed, though she could not remember all the stuff that was on it.

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Flipping through the developed photographs she was amazed to find the picture that her husband had asked her to take while he was dying.

Somehow it had turned out to be the only picture ever to have shown him as the truly unusually handsome man that he had been in real life.

She was both stunned and thrilled by it, and took it to be framed.

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The resulting picture was lovingly placed on the table beside her bed, in order for her to see it each day, both as she went to bed at night, and as she awoke, first thing in the morning.

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At this point in the story she paused.

She said that she had known that she could tell me anything, and that as I knew nothing at all about her, she could find out my opinion and feel quite comfortable with it.

There would be no danger of anyone who knew her finding out, or possibly spoiling, her secret.

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It seemed that her family were a down-to-earth, and prosaic lot, and she was frightened of accusations of being mentally ill and ‘past it’ etc., with the subsequent loss of respect and autonomy.

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She then said that she would like my honest opinion about the following part of her story.

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That night, when she went to bed she had picked up her husband’s picture and kissed it, before returning it carefully to it’s exact place at her bedside.

She said ‘Goodnight’,,,,,,,,,,,,,,, and told him she loved him.

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He smiled at her.

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His face in the photograph actually moved and smiled straight at her.

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This  had continued to happen each night, all through the long years since then, bringing her joy and comfort, and a real hope for seeing him again in the future.

The glow on her face was amazing, she looked so young for just a moment.

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I told her that this was not my first time of hearing something like this, and that she should accept it for the miracle of love that it surely was.

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‘Then you don’t think that I am mad?’

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Absolutely not.  I think that you are just incredibly lucky!’

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That was really the end of the conversation and we both sat companionably together and read our books.

We eventually got off the train and she was met by the people she had come up to visit.

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I went home feeling privileged to have been entrusted with such a love story.

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What do you think of that?

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Have a fine Thursday out there.

LOL

J.x.

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Poem: My Garden Is Full Of Crap.

My Garden Is Full Of Crap.

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The old lady next door

Is a looney.

The old woman next door

Is a tartar.

She has hundreds of cats

And they’re driving me bats,

By crapping all over my

Iris Ensata.

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I Want You Now.

I Want You Now.

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I’ve wanted you

For quite a time,

Exactly when

Will you be mine.

Surely you know

My need is real,

Don’t you enjoy

The way I feel.

I think it’s time

We had a screw

And did the things

That lovers do.

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The People Who Lived On Stilts.

Hey,

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I hope I find you well and happy today.

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All is cool here.

I have been up since the early hours, which has enabled me to have a bath, wash my hair, feed the birds, and enjoy a huge pink pot of tea and two Warburton’s Potato Pancakes…and all before the painters arrive at their usual hour of nine.

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Today promises to be much more pleasant than yesterday.

Since Big H managed to fix the radiators, our new, temporary living room room has now warmed up to a tolerable level.

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Now I am sitting here without my sheepskin coat and my big hat, which is how I was dressed all day yesterday, looking more like an extra in Doctor Zhivago than an English person!

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I read some very interesting stuff too.

Have you heard about the Stilt People who lived in the Landes area of France?

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It is quite amazing!

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This was a huge area of  totally flat plains in the south-west.

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Long ago this area was very boggy, as well as totally featureless, and the main way of surviving there was to have herds of sheep, and to keep moving them around the very poor quality ground.

In order to watch their sheep in such a flat place, the Shepherds devised a method of living on tall stilts, which allowed them to be high enough in the air to be able to keep watch effectively. and move very quickly.

It also meant that everyone could stay warm and dry.

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There were reports of these Stilt people from the 1700’s but no-one knows for sure when this practice developed.

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The Landes folk all lived their lives on stilts and they could quickly cross large distances in this fashion.

Travelling thirty miles per day was common.

It was also possible to safely cross rivers full of poisonous snakes, and pass over large flooded areas, using this method.

Young children were quickly taught to walk in this fashion and would eventually spend most of their lives on stilts.

The housewives would go to market on their stilts and stand in groups gossipping together like flocks of long legged, ungainly birds.

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Letters were delivered by postmen on stilts, and people would carry long staffs so that they could have a rest by using the stick as a third stabilising leg to give easy balance.

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They would rest comfortably like this for long periods of watching their sheep, or talking, and they would also knit to help pass the time.

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It is said that in the late 1800’s a young Landes man performed the amazing feat of walking on stilts for 58 days and he ended up covering over 2,000 miles.

I believe that he ended up in Moscow.

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This unique way of life began to disappear after the middle of the 19th century, because a huge forest was planted in the Landes area,

This, of course, changed the landscape, and made it less suitable for the stilt wearing people and their sheep, who had evolved there previously.

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The old practice now lives on only in folk performance.

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I don’t know why it all fascinated me so much.  It is just amazing how inventive people are at adapting themselves to circumstances and overcoming them.

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Thank god my life is a lot easier then that….it is all I can do to walk in  four inch heels….never mind stilts!

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Speak with you again soon.

Take care.

Jaksie x

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Poem: That’s Finally It.

That’s Finally It.

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What happened to

Your early words,

You’re passion when

We kissed,

How did it change

As time when by

‘Til now you raise

Your fist.

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Poem: Johnson Saves The Day.

Johnson Saves The Day.

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The army loved young Johnson

He could fart in splendid style,

Well loud, and long, and windy

He was heard for half a mile.

There came a situation

When the phone was broke by mortars,

So Johnson sent a fart morse code

They heard back in headquarters.

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Poem: Live With It.

Live With It.

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It was a simple, plastic spell,

You never saw the seams.

It was a truly heavy sell,

A trade in porno dreams.

That awful creature handled you

Much better than I could,

I wouldn’t take you back again

No reason why I should.

You’re just a broken wind-up toy

And now you’re feeling used.

Don’t try to pull the wool again

Because you’ve been abused.

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Poem: Sex.

Sex.

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Sex is good

For when you’re bored

It’s good for

For when you’re not

It’s good for

Helping when you’re ill

No matter

What you’ve got

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Call Of Duty…

Hey,

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Tuesday again, I think!

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It is hard to keep track at the moment because of all the upheaval.

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Last night Big H rang the friend that he goes to play his computer games with one night a week, and asked him to come over and help him put up his new screen over the fireplace.

Of course that necessitated a few beer…and then a few games as a test….and then some popcorn to go with the cold beer!

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Basically it ended up as an evening of unexpected, and totally unscheduled fun and games .

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I stayed with them until about 10.15pm before retiring to my bed for a quiet read, no doubt much to their relief at being able to turn up all the side effects of maiming, killing and generally socking it to the enemy.

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Big H’s life has continued to be further enhanced by the timely arrival this morning of the new  computer game he has ordered.

It is ….  The Call Of Duty Series-Modern Warfare 2…. and will no doubt add greatly to his pleasure and his reaction times.

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If we are ever attacked by highly trained special forces, in overwhelming numbers, in real life, no doubt we will now last at least two seconds .

So of course I feel much safer!

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We actually needed someone to arrive and cheer us up, because we were feeling very frustrated by our Paint Pod, the one that we bought a while age.

Initially we had intended to use it immediately we bought it, but as things turned out it had not been used before, as we were waiting until the different workmen were finally getting near to the end of all this dust and mess, which has gone on forever.

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Big H got the Pod out and brought it into the living room, along with some of the containers of the special paint you have purchase to use with the machine.

He wanted to paint the chimney breast in order to finally fit his television.

This was at about 3.00pm, and well timed for asking our big, strong painter to help lift the huge thing up to the wall brackets, before he went off home for the night.

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The machine would not bloody work.

No way could we get the paint to come up the tube and into the roller.

After hours of swearing, we could only deduce that the pump was not working for some reason.

It was not as if we had even used it before.

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Anyway, hours later, Big H had to admit defeat and paint the wall in the old, tried and tested, machine-free fashion …by hand!

Not helped, I confess, by me laughing and threatening to take a picture of him painting with his new ‘machine’.

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Today, I have moved up into one of my sons’ old bedrooms, because the painters are going to start doing up the living room and our proper bedroom.

I got everything we needed moved upstairs, only to find that the room was freezing and the radiators were not actually working, even though they were turned to full heat settings.

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Big H found that when the plasterer had removed them to do his thing, he had put them back but not done anything to adjust them again.

As a result, he had to bleed them etc, in order to get the pressure up again.

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The poor thing was absolutely shattered from continually having to keep going up and down all the stairs.

But he succeeded, even though it is going to take some time to warm up the room.

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Small irritations really, when you think what some unfortunate people have to face daily.

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I wonder what you will do today?

It always seems to me that not a lot happens on a Tuesday…it is a quiet sort of day.

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I don’t like a Tuesday, because that is the one night that our local Chinese takeaway is closed, and that very fact makes me want one badly, even knowing that I am doomed to be disappointed.

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There is nowt as contrary as people, as my old Uncle Herbie used to say….when he was not coughing!

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Have a good one,

J.

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Poem: Another World.

Another World.

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It is very boring

Doing the hoovering.

There is no I.Q. test

For making beds.

Shopping is a drag,

But I’ve always known

The reason why I cope.

I love him, and he holds

Another world than is

In his fingertips.

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