22 September
We were going off to Slimbridge today for a birding day, however, we had a phone call from some friends who were in Dorktown asking if it was OK to visit. So tomorrow is now the birding day. Our friends live in South Wales which is an area we don't visit all that much. In fact I can't remember the last time we did go down there. Don't know why, its rather nice really - but we do prefer North Wales.
So then, Dorktown News has a story of child sex abuse as lead story. An ex-soldier has finally been caught up with after a history of abuse going back to the 1970s. How would you feel about some abuse victims getting their revenge on their abusers? Good or bad idea? My second novel House of Pain is about just that! Not ready for publication yet, but not too far off ... I'll let you know when it is published.
I have short walk to do later today and I'm not looking forward to it at all. I'm nearly out of my medications and my repeat prescriptions are due. The pharmacist is only about 100 yards away but walking that far is now causing me a lot of pain in my back and hips. Jan isn't much better either. Yesterday we went off to do some shopping and I walked around Asda OK, but there again, I did have the shopping trolley to hang on to. I suppose at some time I will need to go see the quakequake and try to get something done about it.
Enough of my ramblings ... the Rochdale Sage has been in touch again ...
HIGH SCHOOL CLASS REUNION OF A 50+ YEAR OLD LADY
I had prepared for it like any intelligent woman would. I went on a
starvation diet the day before, knowing that all the extra weight would just
melt off in 24 hours, leaving me with my sleek, trim, high-school-girl body.
The last forty years of careful cellulite collection would just be gone with
a snap of a finger. I knew if I didn't eat a morsel on Friday, that I could
probably fit into my senior prom dress on Saturday. Trotting up to the attic, I
pulled the gown out of the garment bag, carried it lovingly downstairs, ran
my hand over the fabric, and hung it on the door.
I stripped naked, looked in the mirror, sighed, and thought, "Well, okay,
maybe if I shift it all to the back ..." Bodies never have pockets where
you need them. Bravely I took the gown off the hanger, unzipped the
shimmering dress and stepped gingerly into it. I struggled, twisted,
turned, and pulled and I got the dress all the way up to my knees ...
before the zipper gave out. I was disappointed. I wanted to wear that dress
with those silver sandals again and dance the night away. Okay, one setback
was not going to spoil my mood for this affair. No way! Rolling the dress
into a ball and tossing it into the corner, I turned to Plan B: the black
crepe caftan.
I gathered up all the goodies that I had purchased at semi chem the scented
shower gel; the body building and highlighting shampoo and conditioner; the
split-end killer and shine enhancer. Soon my hair would look like that
Cheryl cole in the Pantene ads.
Then the makeup -- the under eye "ain't no lines here" firming cream, the
all-day face-lifting gravity-fighting moisturiser with wrinkle filler ; the 'all day kiss me till my lips bleed, and see if this gloss will
come off' lipstick, and then the bronzing face powder for that special glow.
But first, the roll-on facial hair remover. I could feel the wrinkles
shuddering in fear.
Okay, time to get ready! I jumped into the steaming shower, soaped,
lathered, rinsed, shaved, tweezed, buffed, scrubbed and scoured my body to a
tingling pink.
I plastered my freshly scrubbed face with the anti-wrinkle, gravity fighting
"your face will look like a baby's posterior" face cream. I set my hair in
hot rollers.
I felt wonderful. Ready to take on the world. Or in this instance, my
underwear. With the towel firmly wrapped around my glistening body, I pulled
out the black lace, tummy-tucking, cellulite-pushing, ham hock-rounding
girdle, and the matching "lifting those boosoms like they're filled with
helium" bra. I greased my body with the scented body lotion and began the
plunge. I pulled, stretched, tugged, hiked, folded, tucked, twisted,
shimmied, hopped, pushed, wiggled, snapped, shook, caterpillar crawled and
kicked. Sweat poured off my forehead but I was done. And it didn't look
bad. So I rested. A well deserved rest, too.
The girdle was on my body. It was tighter
than a trampoline. Can you say, "Rubber baby buggy bumper buns?" Okay, so
I had to take baby steps, and walk sideways, and I couldn't move from my
buns to my knees. But I was firm!
Oh no ... I had to go to the bathroom. And there wasn't a snap crotch.
From now on, undies realy gotta have a snap crotch. I was ready to rip it open
and re-stitch the crotch with Velcro, but the pain factor from past
experiments was still fresh in my mind. I quickly sidestepped to the
bathroom.
An hour later, I had answered nature's call and repeated the struggle into
the girdle. I was ready for the bra. I remembered what the saleslady said
to do. I could see her glossed lips mouthing, "Do not fasten the bra in
the front, and twist it around. Put the bra on the way it should be worn --
straps over the shoulders. Then bend over and gently place both breasts
inside the cups." Easy if you have four hands. But, with confidence, I put
my arms into the holsters, bent over and pulled the bra down ... but the
boobs weren't cooperating. I'd no sooner tuck one in a cup, and while
placing the other, the first would slip out. I needed a strategy. I
bounced up and down a few times, tried to dribble them in with short bunny
hops, but that didn't work. So, while bent over, I began rocking gently
back and forth on my heel and toes and I set 'em to swinging. Finally, on
the fourth swing, pause, and lift, I captured the gliding glands.
Quickly fastening the back of the bra, I stood up for examination. Back
straight, slightly arched, I turned and faced the mirror, turning front, and
then sideways. I smiled, yes, Houston , we have lift up! My breasts were
high, firm and there was cleavage! I was happy until I tried to look down.
I had a chin rest.. And I couldn't see my feet.
I still had to put on my tights and shoes. Oh ... why did I buy heels
with buckles? Then I had to pee again.
So I put on my old joggies, fixed myself a drink, ordered pizza, and skipped the
high school reunion.
I had prepared for it like any intelligent woman would. I went on a
starvation diet the day before, knowing that all the extra weight would just
melt off in 24 hours, leaving me with my sleek, trim, high-school-girl body.
The last forty years of careful cellulite collection would just be gone with
a snap of a finger. I knew if I didn't eat a morsel on Friday, that I could
probably fit into my senior prom dress on Saturday. Trotting up to the attic, I
pulled the gown out of the garment bag, carried it lovingly downstairs, ran
my hand over the fabric, and hung it on the door.
I stripped naked, looked in the mirror, sighed, and thought, "Well, okay,
maybe if I shift it all to the back ..." Bodies never have pockets where
you need them. Bravely I took the gown off the hanger, unzipped the
shimmering dress and stepped gingerly into it. I struggled, twisted,
turned, and pulled and I got the dress all the way up to my knees ...
before the zipper gave out. I was disappointed. I wanted to wear that dress
with those silver sandals again and dance the night away. Okay, one setback
was not going to spoil my mood for this affair. No way! Rolling the dress
into a ball and tossing it into the corner, I turned to Plan B: the black
crepe caftan.
I gathered up all the goodies that I had purchased at semi chem the scented
shower gel; the body building and highlighting shampoo and conditioner; the
split-end killer and shine enhancer. Soon my hair would look like that
Cheryl cole in the Pantene ads.
Then the makeup -- the under eye "ain't no lines here" firming cream, the
all-day face-lifting gravity-fighting moisturiser with wrinkle filler ; the 'all day kiss me till my lips bleed, and see if this gloss will
come off' lipstick, and then the bronzing face powder for that special glow.
But first, the roll-on facial hair remover. I could feel the wrinkles
shuddering in fear.
Okay, time to get ready! I jumped into the steaming shower, soaped,
lathered, rinsed, shaved, tweezed, buffed, scrubbed and scoured my body to a
tingling pink.
I plastered my freshly scrubbed face with the anti-wrinkle, gravity fighting
"your face will look like a baby's posterior" face cream. I set my hair in
hot rollers.
I felt wonderful. Ready to take on the world. Or in this instance, my
underwear. With the towel firmly wrapped around my glistening body, I pulled
out the black lace, tummy-tucking, cellulite-pushing, ham hock-rounding
girdle, and the matching "lifting those boosoms like they're filled with
helium" bra. I greased my body with the scented body lotion and began the
plunge. I pulled, stretched, tugged, hiked, folded, tucked, twisted,
shimmied, hopped, pushed, wiggled, snapped, shook, caterpillar crawled and
kicked. Sweat poured off my forehead but I was done. And it didn't look
bad. So I rested. A well deserved rest, too.
The girdle was on my body. It was tighter
than a trampoline. Can you say, "Rubber baby buggy bumper buns?" Okay, so
I had to take baby steps, and walk sideways, and I couldn't move from my
buns to my knees. But I was firm!
Oh no ... I had to go to the bathroom. And there wasn't a snap crotch.
From now on, undies realy gotta have a snap crotch. I was ready to rip it open
and re-stitch the crotch with Velcro, but the pain factor from past
experiments was still fresh in my mind. I quickly sidestepped to the
bathroom.
An hour later, I had answered nature's call and repeated the struggle into
the girdle. I was ready for the bra. I remembered what the saleslady said
to do. I could see her glossed lips mouthing, "Do not fasten the bra in
the front, and twist it around. Put the bra on the way it should be worn --
straps over the shoulders. Then bend over and gently place both breasts
inside the cups." Easy if you have four hands. But, with confidence, I put
my arms into the holsters, bent over and pulled the bra down ... but the
boobs weren't cooperating. I'd no sooner tuck one in a cup, and while
placing the other, the first would slip out. I needed a strategy. I
bounced up and down a few times, tried to dribble them in with short bunny
hops, but that didn't work. So, while bent over, I began rocking gently
back and forth on my heel and toes and I set 'em to swinging. Finally, on
the fourth swing, pause, and lift, I captured the gliding glands.
Quickly fastening the back of the bra, I stood up for examination. Back
straight, slightly arched, I turned and faced the mirror, turning front, and
then sideways. I smiled, yes, Houston , we have lift up! My breasts were
high, firm and there was cleavage! I was happy until I tried to look down.
I had a chin rest.. And I couldn't see my feet.
I still had to put on my tights and shoes. Oh ... why did I buy heels
with buckles? Then I had to pee again.
So I put on my old joggies, fixed myself a drink, ordered pizza, and skipped the
high school reunion.
No comments:
Post a Comment