The Importance of Punctuality

Sunray was ex-Army.  22 years long.  He was never a civilian.  He was always ex-Army.  Soldiers always arrive on time.  Always.

One Sunday Sunray came to visit us.  To save money he decided to hitch-hike from Brompton in North Yorkshire to Redcar.  He was due to arrive at 11am.  We looked out of our living room window. 10:58.  He still wasn’t there.

10:59 Sunray appeared.  He was walking out of the front door of the house opposite ours.

Ginge in Germany:

Ummm, do you know the people opposite?

Sunray:

No.

G in G:

So, er, what were you doing in their house?

Sunray:

Oh, them.  I was running late, so I took a short cut through their house.

G in G:

Sorry, you did what?

Sunray:

Oh aye, I saved myself a couple of minutes by walking through their house to yours. 

G in G:

Did anybody see you?

Sunray:

Oh aye.  I walked into their back garden, straight through their kitchen, past their dining room, when this couple were having their Sunday dinner, with sprouts, joint of beef and and Yorkshire puds…

sundayroast

G in G:

Well, what did they do when they saw you?

Sunray:

This bloke spat his dinner out and told me to get the f*** out of his house.  So I told him cheers, mate, and headed out of the front door.  Like I say, I was running late.

I just shook my head.

Have a punctual day, won’t you!

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One Year On

My Dad, Sunray, passed away died exactly one year ago today, suddenly at 14:00 GMT, while walking back from his local shop.

How time flies.

How was my grieving process?  Actually, IMHO, there wasn’t really one.  I was very matter-of-fact the moment I found out via a Facebook Messenger message from my younger brother.  I was in the office, collating an Excel spreadsheet.  I told my colleague, “My Dad has just died,” in the same way and tone that we would tell a colleague, “Our boss popped in, looking for you.”  I then carried on with my spreadsheet to meet a deadline for our rather unfriendly product owner.

I did pause to send out a Whatsapp round-robin message to Schatz and to church friends to ask for their prayers for Sunray’s soul.  Replies came in from single “prayer” emojis to long, warm messages from members of my house group.  I wasn’t in shock, but I think I was stunned.

I did not cry until I got home.  By then the posts and kinds words and funny stories about him flooded in on his regimental old comrades Facebook page.  Tears of grief ran out of my left eye, and of laughter from the right eye.  It’s what Sunray would have wanted.

That was then.  This is now.

I still feel relieved.  I still do not regret deciding to stay away from his funeral.  In any case I was still not well enough to travel at that time.  Even walking to my local shops and back was a major physical exertion.  I am glad that I visited his grave two months later, said a prayer or two over his grave and placed three daffodils on the broken earth, marking his relatively fresh grave.

I have prayed daily that his is indeed resting in peace and that God will let his infinite mercy shine on Sunray’s face.  Since he died one year ago, several more of his regimental brothers have died.  I pray that they will join him in the Senior Squadron bar to exchange “Do you remember when…?” stories.

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Sunray in November 1998

Have a poignant day, won’t you!

 

Pet Hate 97: The Copper Chopper Question

What are your pet hates?

  • Squeezing the toothpaste tube in the middle?
  • Men not putting the toilet seat down for the ladies to use?
  • Being called a “translator” when you are, in fact, an interpreter?
  • Back-seat drivers telling you how to do your job because their third cousin twice removed showed them how to do it?

Here’s my latest pet hate.  To give you some context, I’m a member of several local affairs pages on Facebook thanks to my nomadic life.  Most of the posts are along the lines of:

  • Can anyone recommend a plumber/cleaning lady/oven cleaning firm round Jonesville?
  • What time does … shop close on Sundays?

But you can guarantee that at least once a week some nosey parker/rubbernecker will ask this classic, curtain-twitcher question:

What was the police helicopter doing over Bracknell/Redcar/Crowthorne/Scumbagsville yesterday evening?

Unless it directly affects you, why bother asking on FB?  Why not phone up the police public relations office if you are desperate to know?

This morning I saw this excellent tweet by Thames Valley Police in Bracknell in response to the latest “What is the police helicopter doing over Bracknell?” query on Facebook.

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Good skills, Thames Valley Police, good skills!

Have an inquisitive day, won’t you!

The Back-Seat Driver: Part 94

The back-seat driver.  In German: der Co-Trainer. The armchair expert, Kneipenprofessor, who knows your job better than you do (because they saw this done in a movie or on YouTube).  The bane of my life, and quite possibly of yours, my dear reader.

Are you sitting comfortably?  Then we’ll begin.  Time to write through gritted teeth.  I shall wear a smile.  Here it is for you.

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Let me outline the background of this article for you.  Our church treasurer is of Welsh origin, but quite Germanic in his view that:

Ordnung muss sein.

The treasurer noticed a week ago that we had two large boxes at the back of church.

  • One for used stamps to donate to charity.  In the UK, pretty much every small business had an A4 envelope full of such stamps, which the secretary or office junior would then take once in a while to the local charity shop.  (You get the idea.)
  • The other contained a whole load of spectacles, also to give to a Third World charity.

Both boxes have never been emptied in the near seven years that I have been attending this church.

Never, never, never, never.  In seven (7) years.  Never, never, never, never. 

Let’s cut to the chase.  Last week after seeing the two un-loved boxes one time too many, I undertook to take both boxes with me to the local charity shop.  After I had taken the box of spectacles to the shop this morning, I sent out a round-robin to church members via Whatsapp.

We have taken our collection of spectacles for the Third World to charity shop.  They are very happy.

Within minutes, messages of unbridled adulation flood into my inbox.

You are the finest human being I have ever met.

Truly you are a blessing in my life.

I am filled with endless gratitude to you for your sterling efforts and endless, selfless devotion to the work of the church, and indeed, to the human race.

And much, much more.

I tell a lie.  I get one message from the treasurer:

Cheers, mate.

Other than that one, I then receive a bombardment of Disgusted of Tunbridge Wells messages from Billy, our “in-house” back-seat driver and giver of unsolicited advice.  He was challenging my decision to discontinue the collecting of stamps and spectacles.  I explain that, members of the congregation are grown-up enough to take their donations directly to the charity.  (Well, actually, Billy probably isn’t.)  He then combines his Disgusted of Tunbridge Wells comments with passive aggressive comments concluding in, “But of course, you’re in charge, and you you know best, and you probably have your reasons for your decision.”  (Think of when a woman answers you with “Fine.”)

(Yes, Billy, I do have good reasons, and I’ve just spent ten minutes of my life explaining the rationale, context, whys and wherefores thereof.)

Message after message, after message… after message… after message… after message… after message… after message… after message… after message… after message… after message…

“Billy must be bored today,” I sigh to myself.

In the end, Billy has the last word and informs me he is “far too busy to discuss this matter until tomorrow.”  A reprieve. I anticipate the next chapter at about 02:20 when he gets up for a night-time loo break.  I say the words that every ex-HM Forces person, every pads brat utters at least once a month.

Bl00dy civvies.

I then get on with my jobs at church:

  • Shiftin’ and liftin’ fifty stacking chairs back into the church hall
  • Writing a thank you card to Grasshopper for some highly amusing videos about protein powder
  • Nibbling a couple of small mince pies left for me by our catering team
  • Advising the catering team how to bake mince pies because that’s how my last church used to make them  (Er no thanx, I’ll leave that to Billy to butt in)

Have an advisory day, won’t you!

Image result for unsolicited advice

Troll of the Year Award

I have two pet hates.

  1. People who write passive aggressive posts on Facebook along the lines of: “How can anyone do that to someone who I thought as a friend????  I don’t want to talk about it.”
  2. People who post pictures of themselves holding up tubs of whey powder/fitness food and commenting along the lines of: “Day 87 of the New Me, New Body diet.  Disappointed that I only managed 529 of my target of 700 press-ups this morning.  Note to self: MUST TRY HARDER!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

I confided the latter pet hate to Grasshopper yesterday.  Today Grasshopper sent me the following picture…

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Grasshopper is now officially a cad and a bounder.

Have a caddish day, won’t you!

Do you come here often?

Female Comebacks

Man: “Haven’t we met before?”
Woman: “Yes, I’m the receptionist at the VD Clinic.”

Man: “Haven’t I seen you someplace before?”
Woman: “Yeah, that’s why I don’t go there anymore.”

Man: “Is this seat empty?”
Woman: “Yes, and this one will be too if you sit down.”

Man: “So, wanna go back to my place?”
Woman: “Well, I don’t know. Will two people fit under a rock?”

Man: “Your place or mine?”
Woman: “Both. You go to yours and I’ll go to mine.”

Man: “I’d like to call you. What’s your number?”
Woman: “It’s in the phone book.”
Man: “But I don’t know your name.”
Woman: “That’s in the phone book too.”

Man: “So what do you do for a living?”
Woman: “I’m a female impersonator.”

Man: “Hey, baby, what’s your sign?”
Woman: “Do Not Enter”

Man: “How do you like your eggs in the morning?”
Woman: “Unfertilized!”

Man: “Hey, come on, we’re both here at this bar for the same reason”
Woman: “Yeah! Let’s pick up some chicks!”

Man: “I’m here to fulfill your every sexual fantasy.”
Woman: “You mean you’ve got both a donkey and a Great Dane?”

Man: “I know how to please a woman.”
Woman: “Then please leave me alone.”

Man: “I want to give myself to you.”
Woman: “Sorry, I don’t accept cheap gifts.”

Man: “If I could see you naked, I’d die happy.”
Woman: “Yeah, but if I saw you naked, I’d probably die laughing.”

Man: “Your body is like a temple.”
Woman: “Sorry, there are no services today.”

Man: “I’d go through anything for you.
Woman: “Good! Let’s start with your bank account.”

Man: “I would go to the end of the world for you.”
Woman: “Yes, but would you stay there?”

 

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Have a flirty day, won’t you!

I Wouldn’t Give Tuppence for All of the Rest…

We English are a strange bunch.  We love understatement.

It’s not really my cup of tea.

(“I can’t stand it at all.”)

I’m not full of joy.

(“I need a ton of Prozac right now.”)

I got a little bit sunburnt today.

(“I have third-degree burns over 80% of my body.”)

Do you want to know if an English person likes you or not?  Try this very useful flowchart.

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Have you ever experienced a mishap?  For example, do you ever want sympathy when your pizza order has been delivered to the wrong address, and Pizzas’R’Us refuse to refund you?  Then don’t post the news on Facebook.  Your German neighbours will share their sympathy and outrage:

Das ist eine absolute Unverschämtheit!  Das geht gar nicht!  Was für eine Frechheit!

Your English friends and neighbours will just mock you and troll you for hours and hours. They will:

  • Tell you how they really enjoyed eating the pizza Hawaiian and Classico that arrived unexpectedly some thirty minutes ago
  • Post sarcastic comments about part-eaten pizzas
  • Post photos of part-eaten pizzas
  • Crack even more jokes at your expense when you react with anger

Cue joke:

Well, it’s Advent now, so here’s a seasonal joke for y’all.  Good King Wenceslas walks into Pizzas’R’Us and orders a pizza. 

“And how would you like your pizza?”

“Same as ever, please.  Deep pan, crisp and even.”

  • You will get no sympathy of your English neighbours.  None.  Zilch.  Not a drop.

You will have to either get angry, or just admit defeat and join in with the mocking.  The English are best!

Have an English day, won’t you!