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Author Archives: Therese Trouserzoff

The Parable of the Terry

30 Monday Jan 2012

Posted by Therese Trouserzoff in Emmjay

≈ 58 Comments

Tags

forgiveness, Kindness

Well-known kind person

Sometimes a dear friend of mine is really hard on himself.  Like anybody who is human and who lives amongst his fellow men, Terry from time to time screws up.  So often it’s in the name of doing good works – since Terry has both a regular job and his non-paying good work job.  He’s strung out – meeting the commitments he makes to the many.

And when Terry screws up, in my experience, it’s only a worry in Terry’s own mind.  Most people appreciate the work he does selflessly and with admirable dedication and energy.  Nobody judges Terry like he judges himself.

I’ve encountered him from time to time, deeply depressed because of a missed deadline – that only HE was worried about.  I think Terry thinks that people judge him by the standards he applies to only himself.  He has higher standards than most people – and nobody I know would even notice his failures let along judge him harshly for them.

So I went with him one time to visit his psychologist.  This bloke has been practicing for almost 30 years and is a very seasoned professional.  His words, verbatim were “Listen, sport, you are absolutely known by everyone you encounter – as being the most loving and forgiving man any of us has ever met.  You forgive everyone – except one person.  And you are kind to everyone – everyone except one person, present here today.  YOU !”

His advice was for Terry to forgive himself his sins – real and perceived and rejoice in his good works.

He added “ Be a lot kinder to yourself:.

I think the advice was sound and I use it on Terry every chance I get.  Re-enforcement IS necessary because Terry works for a brilliant man – who for all his intelligence in his somewhat narrow but complex field, is almost completely oblivious to the need for kindness in his dealings with others – especially his faithful and long-suffering staff.  He is a truth first, foremost and in every way sort of professional.

This chap has never heard of kindness and he will argue an iron pot’s legs off in pursuit of truth.

I was wondering  (Sumner Miller style) why this is so.

I think that (let’s call him) Professor Smith, while richly-endowed with intellect is rather deficient in perception of the emotions of other human beings – including intelligent co-workers.  If I was guessing, I’d say his behaviour was typical of someone on the autistic spectrum.  Like a person with Asperger’s condition.  He is obsessed with his field to the exclusion of just about everything else – including missing the minute clues that his partners in discourse are looking for the shortcuts to the exit.

In fact, I’d speculate that the reason he’s so obsessed with “truth” is because he sees it as “HIS TRUTH”, and he is driven by an ego that needs to win intellectual arguments rather than use the vehicle of an argument as a means to reach an ‘absolute’ truth – or one that is shared by the cognoscenti as being self-evident and not in need of dispute.  His truth is understood by himself as an absolute and an unarguable truth.  “Kindness” does not come into his lexicon – he thinks of it as a synonym for intellectual weakness.

So Professor Smith is not going to take Terry’s psychologist’s advice and apply a bit of kindness – first because he doesn’t know what it is to be kind, and second – if he DID know, he would regard it with contempt for being a mark of intellectual feebleness.

It is very much his loss as well as Terry’s loss working with and for him.

Whereas “truth” might be relative – that is, it is someone’s perspective of what is true, can there be some kind of universal understanding (by people – shall we call them neurotypical as opposed to the non-PC term of “normal” ?) of what is meant by “kindness”?

I would argue that “kindness” is a universal human good.  We see it expressed through “giving” actions – forgiving others their trespasses on oneself, allowing people the space to express their own opinions no matter how badly they diverge from our own, treating others with respect, regardless of whether we feel they have earned it or not.  Seeing the fundamental good in one another.  Giving without the expectation of also receiving.

When we raise children, it is wise to focus on praising their excellence as opposed to punishing them for their perceived failings.  As adults we show children the forgiveness and the kindness they so deserve, but many of us are prepared to draw the line at family or perhaps at adolescents – or adults who for some reason do not meet our expectations.

It’s surprising that those old chestnut Ten Commandments DO exhort (apart from some Old Testy tripe about worshipping one God and hang the rest – OR ELSE), the useful code of doing unto others as we would have them do unto us.  Unfortunately this often gets re-interpreted in modern times not as an exhortation to kindness, but moreover the other Old Testy notion of ‘an eye for an eye’ – that is, if this person is a bastard to me, that justifies me coming out of my corner with fists flying.  I know there’s some “turn the other cheek” residue, but I’m fairly sure that its application went out with open toed shoes and white wall tyres.  Perhaps it’s time to amend the first Ten – or some at least – could we just say instead ….. Do unto others by showing only kindness.  And leave it at that.

Do be kind unto one’s self.  And to others.  Terry, towel not thy self nor thy neighbour up.

And the people saw that it was a good approach and there was rejoicing at the pub.

Laddie Come Home

30 Monday Jan 2012

Posted by Therese Trouserzoff in Emmjay, Poets Corner

≈ 8 Comments

Tags

First Dog on the Moon

First Dog on the Moon

For days, it seems, we’ve lost our dog
We wander round in hazy fog
Our fear, it seems, – he’s run away
He’s spat the bone,
No more Dog play.

We wouldn’t give him up for quids
Sad old Crikey runs his good dog vids
We want him back, and make it soon.
Return to us, First Dog on Moon.

But where’s he gone ?
Is it unsound ?
Has anyone looked down the pound ?
Has he gone for good ?
Will he be found ?

But hark, to all, he will prevail
Return to us with waggy tail
I bet he has an iron-clad reason
He’s been chasin’ chicks in doggy season.

Maurice the Window Washer

23 Monday Jan 2012

Posted by Therese Trouserzoff in Emmjay

≈ 22 Comments

Tags

entertainer and bon-vivant, Matt Sutton Photographs, Maurice the Window Washer

Maurice - Photo by Matt Sutton - http://www.mattsuttonphotography.com.au

It’s good to have a job.  One of the pleasures of my job is that after each day’s toil, on my way home to the Pig’s Arms, I am blessed.

So it doesn’t matter what kind of day I’ve had, there is always the potential for arriving home in a joyful (and of course, blessed) state.  I am blessed not only by having a job that helps to keep the roof over our heads, but I am blessed by Maurice.

Maurice wears different clobber – especially his amazing array of hats – every day, and one can be reminded of the season or special time of year according to his costumery.  Garlands of flowers for Spring, Lifesaver cap and zinc cream for summer, the Tiger’s colours when footy season is on, Sgt Peppers gear, and many many others.  He sometimes adorns his tiny median strip with flags, plastic shrubbery and soft toys to cheer the place  – and the punters up.

I have one of his free wash frequent flyer vouchers that I keep safely on my desk at home – to remind me how lucky I am.  Along with one of his Christmas cards.

Maurice is a local landmark in Inner West Cyberia, here beautifully captured by Matt Sutton outside their mutual watering hole – The Empire Hotel – on the insanely busy corner of Johnson Street and Parramatta Rd.

Maurice does not wash my window.  I haven’t had the heart to tell him that once another far less professional window washer scratched the shit of my windscreen – I presume through having a really sandy or dirty scrubbing thingo.  But he always offers and I always decline – but I give him some money every time – and he always says thank you and blesses me.  Sometimes he does use a paint brush to remove leaves from that channel under the wipers, but I never pay him for that.

Not paying him is very important.  Window washing at intersections in Inner West Cyberia –  for money  – is against the local law.  But there is nothing to prevent people giving money to whomever they wish – which is what I do.

But the truth is that sometimes sourpusses (reputedly local retailers – and I use the term loosely – because I am not the sort of person who would call them redneck shopkeepers) have lent on the upper eschelons of the local constabulary to have them “move Maurice on”.   There is a smokescreen excuse that dancing as and where Maurice does – sharing his unbounded joi-de-vivre , is a tad dangerous and I guess one should acknowledge that as a fair observation.

Odd that most people other than the local shopkeepers trust Maurice to keep his ferret arse out of harm’s way – and for the drivers to damn well pay attention.

Just before the last Christmas, Maurice was threatened that there would be consequences if he persisted in his lavatorial busking, and the thin blue line removed his set and props from the median strip.  But not in any way being a quitter, Maurice circulated a petition to let the Commander of the Inner West Cyberian command in on the significance and value of his contribution to the cultural and lavatorial spheres of our community.

Here is the result.

Massive support for Maurice - Photo by Matt Sutton http://www.mattsuttonphotography.com.au

……. so, Bless YOU, Maurice ………. stay safe and have a great day………

Our thanks to Matt Sutton for generously allowing us the use of his photographs.

You can see more of his excellent work here at   www.mattsuttonphotography.com.au

drop in and let Matt know that a Merv sent you.

Foodge 29 – Here’s a Toast for George

18 Wednesday Jan 2012

Posted by Therese Trouserzoff in Emmjay, Foodge Private Dick

≈ 21 Comments

Tags

dead cat, Foodge

Simulated George Cat

OK, it was a mistake to think that using the paddles of life was a good idea on a cat having a heart attack.

Well, it was an honest mistake.  Foodge really did think he was having a heart attack. No, I mean BEFORE Foodge applied the paddles of life.

How was the private dick to know that cats go all dramatic when they’re trying to cough up a fur ball.  It wasn’t his fault.  He was only trying to help.

“What’s that smell downstairs, dear” ?

“It’s nothing”

“It smells like something’s burning”

“I think it’s a moth in the halogen light”.

“No, I mean it really stinks – kind of like burnt fish – no wait, a seal caught crossing a hotplate”.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about”.

Descending the stair, curiosity was about to kill the attempted saviour of the cat.  “WTF !!!”  she said.

“Uuhhm, I think George is looking a bit off his Snappy Tom”.   “A BIT !!!  A BIT !! He’s fuckin’ toast.  WHAT HAPPENED ?

“Well, I noticed that he was lying there doing these little jump and jive impressions.  I thought he was having a heart attack……. and …….”  “And so you went and got the jumper leads and clamped them on his chest……. ”  ” And WHAMMER-JAMMER”  “The thing is, he didn’t start, did he ?  Nope, he zipped and zapped and ……

“Look, let’s put a positive spin on this.  No more spraying in the house !  That’s a good thing “!  You could have cut the silence with a stone axe.  We were not amused.  Well, I was secretly a little amused but thought it wise to not display such callous disregard for the sanctity of feline life.  And the impending extinction of a minor blip on the private eye radar.

Foodge thought it wise to remove the evidence from line of sight.  While it was true that George was a major pain in the arse, it was also true that he was FM’s cat for a bit over a decade and although I had never quite warmed to the way he’d bring home his mousy / ratty nocturnal safari trophies – or maybe just a kidney or the back half of a torso, it was clear to me that FM HAD warmed to George’s little peccadilloes.  Foodge used an old towel to wrap this toasty little corpse and withdrew the former George from the back verandah.  And he discretely stowed the offending electronics.

By the back fence rested a row of greenish grey plastic yard chairs, bleached by years of exposure to the scorching rays of the inner west cyberian solar system.  Foodge placed G on the middle chair and withdrew to the house to take his abuse.

It was some hours before Foodge faced the daunting task of disposing of the corpse.  There was a choice between a private burial in the yard (not advised since Kali the dog had a reputation for Austro-Sino excavations in pursuit of subterranean protein), casual laying to rest in a back lane equivalent of a Tibetan sky burial – where the roles of vultures were acted by the local council collectors, or an extended procession to the skip in the Seven Eleven car park.

But lo, as Foodge approached the row of chairs, the body was nowhere to be seen.  It was a miracle.  Foodge made customary inquiries with the Dog.  She was coolly nonchalant and acted like she had no information.  Foodge checked the back lane.  The usual refuse and one junkie shooting up – but no George.  Foodge managed only a cursory peek into the Seven Eleven skip.  After all, it was not a useful addition to a private dick’s CV to be seen scouting for accommodation before dusk.

Curious.  Foodge pictured an exchange with the local vet.  “After I attached the jumper leads …… “.  No, that wasn’t going to work.  There was only one option.  To go back and try to appease the by now explosive FM.

“I’m very sorry, Aunty FM”.  “I know you are, dear.”  FM had resigned herself to the extinction of the in-house sprayer and was warming to the notion that no more of her curtains would spend more time in the dry cleaners than on the lounge room curtain rods.  There was some other small compensation – the accident had also put an end to the payments FM and Emmjay made on the Vet’s yacht.

One day passed.

As was his wont, Foodge rose at the crack of a quarter past ten and went straight to the front porch to collect his copy of Private Dick Daily, resplendent as usual on the Welcome mat.  “Meow” said the murraya in the concrete urn by the fence.

“It’s a miracle”, shouted Foodge.  Aunty FM, Aunty FM, it’s George !  I guess he’s down to 8 lives !  It’s George !  Back from the dead.  Foodge was convinced that George had some celestial recuperative experience and that there would be pilgrims any minute to witness the miracle of the Inner West.

George was non-plussed.  He jumped out of the concrete urn, turned on his heel, strolled across the hearth, down the hall, up to the drapes, reversed and raised his tail, did the shimmy and headed for the kitchen, secure in his remarkable territory and certain of a hearty breakfast of hard and wet  foods.

No Worries ?

17 Tuesday Jan 2012

Posted by Therese Trouserzoff in Emmjay

≈ 24 Comments

Tags

Worrying

When I was but a lad, it occurred to me that my Mom and her Mum (my Nan) used to spend a lot of their time worrying about just about, well, everything.

They seemed agitated and having not a lot of fun.  Money was tight.  Their husbands were unreliable and prone to drinking the small amount of cash that by some miracle filtered through the universe to our family.

These were women of the war and inter-war years, of the depression, of the post-war boom that carried the wealth that seemed to elude them nicely.

They wore cotton printed dresses, drank tea and got down to sharing some rather serious worry.

This went on for years.

Worry ranged from imminent financial doom, the travails of bowling club politics (she said this…. and then I said …. and she said …….) to seeing life as a precarious lurching from one medical condition to another.  There were women’s issues, one gathers – a mystery to me to this day.  And there was a myriad of other actual, imagined or looming corporeal disasters that were expected to yield to the might of modern medicine.  Defeating polio was the triumph.  Lesser terrors were a walk in the park.

But the unifying theme was worry itself.

It took me some time to start to think about what worry actually was and once I had started to ponder this valley of shadows, with the unbridled optimism of youth, I started to question the point of bothering to worry – in the face of so many actual and potential disasters – about which, the harbouring and nurturing of anguished concern would do absolutely nothing.

Hardly any point as far as I could / can see to worrying – as a futile act that merely immerses one in spirit-sapping decay.

Worse, I think was the realisation that so much previous worry had been about events that never materialised.  Worse than futile.

I did discuss these views with Mum – who could see the rational argument that worry was a waste of time and energy – time and energy that would be put to better use by actually doing something.  If money was a concern (as it was), perhaps getting a job in the post-war boom of the late 50s and 60s was a very workable and eminently sensible alternative to worrying about poverty.  Yep, she could see the sense in that, but it took her until I was nine to act on the issue.

Well, it was really the issue that she had to find some economic base in contemplating divorce from a man who in all probability might have been bipolar, but who had the more socially acceptable excuse of being merely a weekend drunk.  The tipping point was when he made a silencer for his .22  and pointed the gun at her.  My uncle – who had a car, showed up in a hurry, exchanged some stern words with Dad (I could just about hear the shouting from my temporary safe haven at the neighbours’ place).  Uncle removed the bolt from the gun and took it with him – for safe-keeping.  He was a wonderful bloke, my uncle.  Calm, collected, generous, funny – and a real man’s man.  He solved most of our extended family’s worries and stayed friends with everybody.

But Mum didn’t have to worry for much longer – about Dad, anyway.  She got a job, secured some independence from him and we were ready to hit the road when Dad was diagnosed with Type II diabetes.  He was in hospital for weeks while they stabilised him and sorted out his insulin regime.

Off the grog, and with his diabetes under control, he became something like the man that Mom had married.  And for ten years they enjoyed some kind of reconciliation and gentle poverty together.  Mom worried about his meals – and the timing and I guess she got her revenge in a very subtle way – she bored him to death with his diet.

But to return to the point – worry.  What actually IS worry ?

One can rationalise it as a build-up of anxiety – perhaps based on powerlessness in the face of adversity – real, impending or even just imagined adversity.  And one can see, I guess that it’s pointless and counterproductive for good health and well-being, but it seems nearly impossible to not worry to some extent at least.

What parent has never lain awake waiting for their teenager to return from the party where we know there will be risks of alcohol and other drug abuse, of non-consenting sex and other violence ?  What parent has ever felt worry-free when their children first took the keys of the car on their own ?  What parent ever went worry-free when it was one of their own children going off to war – or on a rather more positive part of life – giving birth to the first grandchild ?

So what is to be done about worrying ?

Nothing, mate.  She’ll be right  ?  I wish !

Next Instalment – Doing Something Positive – Mindfulness

Lehan’s Bumper Edition – of Rainfall

17 Tuesday Jan 2012

Posted by Therese Trouserzoff in Lehan Winifred Ramsay

≈ 7 Comments

Tags

Global Warming, Lehan, Painting, rainfall

Qatar

Story and Painting by Lehan Winifred Ramsay

Of course, these days we cannot talk about rainfall without speaking of Global Warming, so I will quickly get to the point. I know nothing of global warming, I understand very little, and yet I believe that Global Warming is real. I know myself to be one of the ignorant people who simply chooses her beliefs according to the reality that she wants for the world, and so I think that my opinion should be discredited and never allowed to sway others. I am one of those people who makes Global Warming such a deeply contentious issue.

I know that it rains a lot. I think part of the reason for that is that I spent several years working in an office with no windows onto the outside world. It is a great privelege for me to now have my own window. My window comes also with a frangipani tree, and those frangipani flowers drop to the grass when the rain falls. I can also hear the rain, but I cannot be entirely sure when it ends sometimes, as it can be too light to see or hear, and I cannot tell if it is raining more than it did in the past. I just know that that doesn’t mean that it isn’t. And that my adoption of that phrase among others is what marks me as a Doctor of Philosophy and not Science.

Of course, for me it rains much more than it used to because I was in a location in which it did not rain for half of the year, preferring to snow. I was told the snow was less in quantity than the past. But I was told that by people who were recounting tales of their childhood. I think that people are not very good at keeping time, and knowing time, at recounting time.

Lehan’s Bumper Edition of Dogs

28 Wednesday Dec 2011

Posted by Therese Trouserzoff in Lehan Winifred Ramsay

≈ 7 Comments

Tags

Dogs, Lehan Winifred Ramsay

Paintings by Lehan Winifred Ramsay

White DogSugarSeaGo DogRed DogBDBB

Pola

Sugar

SeaGo Dog

Red Dog

BD

BB

BD1

10 Weirdest Health Conditions – A Guide for Pub Patrons

28 Wednesday Dec 2011

Posted by Therese Trouserzoff in Uncategorized

≈ 18 Comments

Tags

Brooke Stafford

Coming in at #4 - Phillip Ruddock

Story by Brooke Stafford

We’ve all seen an episode of some show where a weird medical condition has a top notch hospital staff wondering what happened.  But did you know that all medical related hilarity is not a work of fiction?  To prove it, we have gathered just 10 of the weirdest health conditions and illnesses below.

  1. Lymphatic filariasis – Also known as Elphantiasis, it is a disease caused when a mosquito bites you and fills you with the larvae of parasitic worms.  The eggs can remain dormant for years and then surface later as gross overgrowth.  This disease can be localized to arms, legs, breasts, and even penis.
  2. Photosensitivity  – We all know that vampires burst into flames when exposed to the sun, but there is actually a real disease similar to that.  People with photosensitivity can get a rash or worse from just the tiniest exposure to the sun.  It can also be brought on by an adverse reaction to drugs.
  3. Hypertrichosis – This disease is also known as Werewolf Syndrome.  People with it experience abnormal body hair growth everywhere, making them look like a werewolf.  There is both a localized form of it and one where hair grows everywhere.
  4. Walking Corpse syndrome – The syndrome is as close as we can get to zombies without having the dead actually rise.  Someone with Walking Corpse syndrome believes they have died and are walking the earth as corpses.  For all we know, we all could actually be walking corpses so maybe the rest of us have the real disease.
  5. Congenital insensitivity to pain with anhidrosis – Remember that James Bond movie where the villain felt no pain?  It is actually a real disorder.  However, it is not as great as the film makes it sound.  People with this condition feel no pain, so they could literally break their arm and keep doing an activity without knowing that they are hurt.
  6. Progeria– Remember that movie where Robin Williams played a 10 year old boy who looked 40?

    Murdoch turns Six

    The disease associated with this is progeria, which is a rare genetic condition that produces rapid aging in children.  However, the children never grow to adult size like Robin Williams did.

  7. Blue skin disorder – It isn’t just for Cameron inspired creations.  There is a strange outbreak of blue skin in Kentucky.  For generations, the family has passed down the odd skin color with no other side effects.  Researchers are still looking into it.
  8. Alien Hand Syndrome – A disease seemingly out of science fiction, sufferers have a hand act out of its own accord.  Also called Dr. Strangelove Syndrome, this neurological disorder can have hands performing complex acts without its owner knowing what is happening.
  9. Alice in Wonderland syndrome – Actually taken from the work that inspired the name, it is a condition in which people see items as smaller than they really are.  It is also known as Lilliputian hallucinations, inspired by “Gulliver’s Travels.”
  10. Foreign Accent syndrome – Maybe Madonna really is suffering from something with her newly found British accent.  Those with FAS normally have received some sort of head injury, trauma, or stroke and begin speaking in a foreign accent.

Brooke Stafford is a nursing practitioner student and also writes for <a href=http://www.onlinefnp.com>Family Nurse Practitioner Degrees</a>.   The site helps International students find the right nurse practitioner degree to fit their needs.

Timewarp World Championship Wrestling

28 Wednesday Dec 2011

Posted by Therese Trouserzoff in Entertainment Upstairs

≈ 18 Comments

Tags

1970s World Championship Wrestling

 

For one Night Only – in the Nathan Rees Memorial Ballroom,

Join us ringside for ….

1970s World Championship Wrestling

Foodge 28 – A Hot Foodge Sunday

26 Monday Dec 2011

Posted by Therese Trouserzoff in Big M, Foodge Private Dick

≈ 27 Comments

Tags

Foodge, humour, Private Dick

Punting - for folks with just a couple of Oxford scholars

Story by Big Magnum

Merv had been pacing the floor behind the bar all morning. Two problems, one was the bloody Christmas decorations. He’d finally found two, foot high, tinsel trees and a red and green banner with the words ‘Merry Christmas’ emblazoned across it, then spent ten minutes sticking the damned thing up. Problem two was Granny keeping a shotgun in the hotel, so had decided that it would be best to get rid of it. The Pleece had an armistice for illegal, or unregistered, weapons, but that was now over. The miserly part of him knew that the Purdy was worth a few Oxford Scholars, so, rather than simply letting the piece go, Merv had started to think about ways to get rid of the gun and, get some easy readies. His ruminations were disturbed, not so much by a presence, but more by an aroma, Foodge had just staggered in, resplendent in his new track-suit and running shoes.

“Jeez, Foodge, it’s thirty five degrees out there, yer gunna die of heat exhaustion!” Exclaimed Merv, as he hefted another tray of glasses into the rack under the bar.

“Well, Merv, as you are fully aware, I missed our morning’s training session so I’m trying to make it up.” Foodge had been on surveillance all night, only managing to take a couple of murky photos of a man behind the wheel of the senator’s car. Later, the man in question would prove to be the hotel valet who was moving the car to the forecourt. “Anyway, thought I could procure some rehydration therapy here.” Foodge had an enthusiastic gleam in his eye.”

“Too right you can, Foodge, here’s a glass a water, on the house.” Merv pushed a glass canoe of cold water across the bar. “I’m not sellin’ you beer in that state!”

Foodge reluctantly took the glass, knowing that Merv was probably right. “Well then, Merv, what’s on the luncheon menu today?”

“Same as it’s bin for thirty three years, but, for you, Granny will knock up a salad.” Granny had been ‘knocking up’ a salad for Foodge for the last eight weeks, which, with reduced alcohol intake, and some training, had brought about a quantum improvement in his overall health. “While yer waitin’, yer can give me a hand.”

“Oh, um…er” Foodge, in spite of his improved fitness, was still averse to any kind of physical labour.

Merv motioned, with his index finger, for Foodge to lean in closer. “What do you know about guns?”

Foodge breathed a sigh of relief. “Sorry, don’t do shooters.” He’d heard Phillip Marlow say this in a film.

“No, not to shoot someone, I’ve got to get rid of Granny’s Purdy, so, thought I might try and sell it.”

Foodge’s pupils dilated. “Did you say a Purdy?? What sort of condition?”

“Sixty years old, and as good as the day it was made.”

“Mmm, let’s see.” Foodge had whipped out his iPhone, and started pushing keys. “Here you are.” He held up the device for Merv to examine. “Nineteen Thirty One model, under and over, sold at auction in the states for thirty one big ones.”

Purdy

Merv went weak at the knees, grabbing the bar to steady himself. “I thought we’d get a few hundred bucks for it, not thousands.”

“Yes, indeed, what you need to find is a high end gun dealer who’s willing to give you a fair price. The other thing you should do is do a Google search and find out what prices people are prepared to pay.”

Merv thought that Foodge was talking gobbly gook with the google business, so nodded and smiled. “Well, thanks Foodge, you’ve earned your keep today.”

“No worries, any Googling needs, I’m your man!” This wasn’t strictly true, as it had taken Emmjay the best part of two weeks to teach Foodge how to use the iPhone. Foodge was hoping that this would be another traditional Christmas spent sucking down Trotter’s Ale, imbibing wedges and regaling the assembled piglets with tales of derring-do, only to wake up on the floor of the Gent’s on Boxing Day. He was surprised to see the place filling up. Gerard and the Mysterious ‘H’ were the first in (he hadn’t seen young Viv pop in through the kitchen to start on the evening meal), followed by Emmjay and his First Mate, both dressed like Bogart and Bacall on a date.

A small band, composed of O’Hoo on the bass, Asty on the guitar, Dr Mick on the euphonium and DCI Rouge playing percussion, had started playing some new fangled pop music. ‘Steely Dan’, or some such thing. Sandshoe and Lehan Ramsay had started to dance, and were quickly joined by Atomou and his missus. The music was suddenly drowned out by the deep throated roar of un-silenced Charlies. Algy’s group had arrived! The party was in full swing, the music occasionally stopping for an oration by J.G Cole, Atomou and even O’Hoo.

Foodge was gob-smacked. It looked like becoming the family Christmas that he’d missed for so many years. “Merv, I think it’s time I shouted the bar, Trotter’s Ale all round!” Merv couldn’t help but notice a film of tears in Foodge’s eyes, but was polite enough to ignore it and started pouring.

“Yes, Foodge, Merry Christmas to us all”

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