Thursday, 24 November 2016

Acid Reflux. A Cure.

John’s medical tip. Number 43. Acid Reflux.

A good way to avoid acid reflux is never to bend over. To avoid having to bend over move all your cupboards to a height where bending over is not required. This applies also to your fridge and oven. Never bend over when getting dressed. Never bend over when putting on socks and shoes or tying shoelaces. Avoid bending over when cutting or painting toe nails. Never under any circumstances bend over to pick up a bar of soap in the shower especially when sharing the shower with another person in prison or the navy. If you do, acid reflux will not be your only problem. Do not bend over to pet a dog or cat or any height restricted family pet. Either get a taller pet or always keep your pets on a table.

I cannot think of any more reasons not to bend over. If you can think of any try to avoid doing them.

Good luck in your attempts not to bend over. Keep practicing not bending over and in a few short years your acid reflux will be a thing of the past.

PS. I just thought of something else. Never bend over to pick anything up off the floor.

Thursday, 17 November 2016

Drug Addict.

I have written this poem about a young man's addiction to drugs. It is not about me. But I did know a few young people who lost.

The Cruel Mistress.

He used to have a mother sort
But was not his mother’s son
Never knew her much at all
After he was twenty-one.

Twenty-one, twenty-one
Reaching tall and strong
But never knew a father’s hand
To show him right from wrong.

She held him in the vices grip
Promising the very best
No invigilator shows the way
He failed the hardest test.

Feathers in the mattress
Are the only soft caress
A pillow gives scant comfort
From anguish and distress.

Take him home
Take the bad man home
Take him home
Take the bad man home.

Sheets the lovers laid upon
Once fresh with a young man’s dream
Now discarded rumpled knots
Hidden by the liar’s screen.

She will come back again for sure
Hold him in sweet embrace once more
Just one more time, she says
Yes, yes, hear him implore.

Has he seen her liar’s face?
Has he seen her liar’s face?
Look into her liar's face.
Look into her liar's face.

Monday, 14 November 2016

Fair Exchange

Instead of having money why don't we all just give each other stuff for free? You know, like if you need a couple of tomatoes I would give you them and you could give me a medium sized turnip in exchange. That sort of thing.

Actually I need my tomatoes for tomorrows sandwiches but I have got half a cucumber if that's acceptable? And I prefer swede to turnip please.

It's not a perfect system yet. There are a few things to iron out.

Thursday, 10 November 2016

Woody Wood Mouse Wants Everyone To Take Their Litter Home

A short story. It has a sad ending. You may want to give it a miss. I don't want to ruin your day.

Please Take Your Litter Home.

Early one morning in autumn, just about the time the last leaves had finished carpeting the ground beneath the venerable old oak tree, summer made a fleeting return visit, and in so doing warmed the ground underneath which lay the home of Woody the Wood Mouse.

Woody had, as Wood Mice are prone to do, been up all night foraging for food, although as foraging goes this night had been unsuccessful due in no small part to the persistent attentions of Toowit and Twoo the Tawny Owls who had lately, much to Woody’s annoyance taken to spending a lot of their time in the old oak tree.

So, it was that Woody feeling the warmth of the sun percolating into his burrow decided to go outside and have a last look for something tasty to eat before he went to bed for the day. Although Woody rarely ventured forth during daylight hours he was very hungry and besides, he knew that Toowit and Twoo would be bound to be sleeping after their long night of hunting and being complete nuisances.

After a bit of careful thought Woody made his mind up. He would risk a quick look about outside in the hope of finding a bedtime snack. It was a decision he would come to regret.

Let us go back in time. Not too far back. Just back a few weeks to the time when Mrs Elizabeth Smith -not her real name- and her two children Ben and Sally -not their real names- of 6 Holly Road- not their real address- in a nearby village -which shall also remain nameless to avoid embarrassment to the family- decided to have a picnic in the woods. As it happened the same woods where Woody the Wood mouse lived.

The family, chose to set up their picnic under the venerable old oak tree. The same old oak tree in whose roots Woody the Wood Mouse had his nest.

After their picnic the children, Ben and Sally -not their real names- had a fun time playing in the woods while their mother Elizabeth -not her real name- read a few chapters of a romance novel in the welcome shade and cool of the old oak. They did not stay long for Elizabeth had shopping to do and the evening meal to prepare for her husband Malcolm -not his real name- who liked his meal to be ready when he got home from work.

They did not clear up after themselves. Was it because Elizabeth -not her real name- was distracted thinking about dinner? Was it because the children Ben and Sally -not their real names- didn’t want to go home so soon and began to play up, causing their mother to lose her temper a little and forget all about taking their litter home? We cannot know the reason why. Maybe they were just selfish people? Maybe they didn’t care about the mess they made? Whatever the reason, they did not clean up after their picnic those few weeks ago.

Woody the Wood Mouse found the empty lemonade bottle they left behind. He saw the juicy rosehip that had fallen into the bottle where it lay wedged upright in the fork of a fallen branch. Woody the Wood mouse was hungry. He loved the sweet seeds inside rosehips. He climbed the branch and reached the bottles neck, squeezing into it. It was then he found his little feet could not get a grip on the smooth glass and he suddenly slid right into the bottle, landing with a bump beside the rosehip.

He was all right. It hadn’t been a long fall. Woody the Wood Mouse tucked into the juicy rosehip. He thoroughly enjoyed it. This was rather fitting because like the condemned man in his prison cell it was his last meal. Ever. Unable to climb up the steep, smooth glass sides of the bottle Woody Wood Mouse died a terrible, lonely, lingering death.

Please take your litter home.

John Bain 10/11/2016

Sunday, 6 November 2016

The Absolutely True Tale Of Fishy Fishface. Chapter Four.

Here is the last part of Fishy Fishtale. It has rather drifted away from being a children's book.

Chapter four.

But what about Cecil Bigbotty? What became of him I hear you ask? Well, I was just getting to that bit. What happened was… Hold on a sec, should there be a colon, a semi colon or a comma after what happened was? I’m not sure. To be honest I’m not much good at punctuation. I shall stick with comma. I always think these colon things are a little bit pretentious truth be told. So yes. Err… What happened was, after Cecil Bigbotty had sent the last walkie-talkie message he wondered why Albert Wisselbum didn’t answer. So, he called him again. “Bigbotty to Wisselbum. Are you receiving me? Over.”
When there was still no answer he called him again. “Bigbotty to Wisselbum. Are you receiving me? Over.”
And again. “Bigbotty to Wisselbum. Are you receiving me? Over.”
And again. “Bigbotty to Wisselbum. Are you receiving me? Over.”
And again. “Albert, it’s Cecil. Are you there, mate? Come in. Over.”
And then with a growing feeling of dread, “Albert? Did you get washed away by a big wave? Over.”
When there was still no answer and after remembering to sign off with, “over and out,” he gave up calling, decided his friend and colleague was probably dead and went home. Well, it was raining heavily so you can’t blame him, it had been a long day. When I say, he went home, that is not strictly true. Read on and you will be enlightened.

We know that Albert Wisselbum isn’t dead. Far from it. Indeed, here he is opening the front door to his house. He is cold, wet, hungry and in need of a comforting hug from Mrs Wisselbum. Maybe more than a hug, maybe a cuddle if he can find the strength. Although, that is not likely to happen for, although he was loathe to admit it, Mrs Wisselbum had been rather unresponsive to his advances lately. More than lately if the truth be told. But Albert hoped that when she saw what a sorry state he was in, his beloved wife would soften towards him, even if only temporarily and he would be allowed to… “I am home dearest,” he called. There was no answer but he could see a light was on upstairs. Wearily he climbed the stairs. The light was on in the bedroom. He turned the door handle and walked in saying, “I am home my dearest one.”
Oh, the shock, the horror, the dismay, Albert must have felt when he saw sitting there in his bed, as though he owned the place, not his beloved wife, but his friend and work colleague Cecil Bigbotty. Yes, sitting there, comfortably propped up on Albert’s very own feather pillows and smoking a pipe too. Albert Wisselbum Esquire was not going to stand idly by and let such a thing happen. Not in his bed. No, never. He would not tolerate such an outrage. “HOW DARE YOU?” he shouted in large capital letters, “HOW DARE YOU SMOKE IN MY BED?”
Just then Mrs Wisselbum appeared from the en-suite bathroom. She was stark naked and seemed astonished to see her husband standing there in his hi-vis health and safety jacket with the stuck zip. “Albert,” she cried, “thank God! You’re alive.”
“Never mind that,” said Albert, “What is Bigbotty doing in our bed?”
“Oh Albert, you silly old billy, don’t be reading anything into this situation. I simply told Cecil he must rest up. He has had such an awful day and when he told me you were dead I felt it only right that I should offer him some hospitality.”
“Why are you naked?” inquired Albert, “why don’t you have any knickers on?”
His wife smiled lovingly at him, “Albert Wisselbum, you have such a suspicious mind. If you must know, I am just getting changed for yoga. In case you have forgotten, it is Thursday. My yoga night.”
Cecil Bigbotty got up out of the bed and Albert Wisselbum saw that he was also stark naked and he couldn’t help noting that Cecil’s willy was bigger too. Men tend to notice little things like that. Or in this case, bigger things.
Albert became angry again. “And I suppose he is getting ready for yoga too?” he said sarcastically.
“His clothes were soaking wet Albert and I insisted he take them off so I could put them in the tumble dryer,” said Mrs Wisselbum, “and I think you should get your wet things off too before you catch your death of cold. Now come on, let me help you my dear”
Albert was rather moved by this caring gesture from his wife and with her help he could extricate himself at last from the hi-vis health and safety jacket with the stuck zip. Mrs Wisselbum took the soggy hi-vis health and safety jacket and put it in the en-suite bath to drain the water from it. She then went back into the bedroom and soon Albert too was stark naked.
Albert looked at Cecil Bigbotty standing there naked. He looked at his wife standing there naked. He looked at himself standing there naked and he suddenly heard himself saying, “Anyone fancy a threesome?”

Afterwards, while the men were both enjoying a post coital nap Mrs Wisselbum went to retrieve Albert’s hi-vis health and safety jacket with the stuck zip from the bath. As she picked it up she became aware of a flapping and fluttering from one of the pockets. Not wanting to put her hand in she carefully turned it upside down over the toilet bowl. Out fell Fishy Fishface, plop into the water. Mrs Wisselbum let out a screech, “Eeeeek!” In her shock, she flushed the toilet. Poor Fishy Fishface. This had not been his day at all.