Imagine That

The stomach ailment which plagued our family appears to have run its course. Melinda has been busy making holiday treats. The children have been shopping today for the sibling whose name they drew. It has snowed some more setting the mood for a "White Christmas". Alex and Karlee may have found an apartment they can afford to move into after they are married. It is a small, very small, no it is just flat out tiny but I am certain they can turn it into a love nest.

The apartment reminds me if when I was a kid building "forts" with my siblings or friends. They were small but comfortable and it was amazing how many people you can fit into one. The art of "fort" building requires very little in terms of materials but it does require a great deal of imagination. There is the Inside fort and the Outside fort. The Inside fort is generally constructed of sheets, blankets, towels, animal hides and the occasional table cloth stretched over the back of chairs, couches, pianos or lamps thus forming a tent of sorts. Add some imagination and the odd sibling or two and the hours fly by when the weather is too bad for outside play. It is however important not to forget that mothers can be a bit uptight about the toll an inside fort can take on the furniture and linens. This is one of the times a kid can hone their negotiating skills. I remember negotiating with my mother not to tear down the third world refugee camp like tent city which had popped up in the living room. "But Mom, we promise to take it down and put everything away when we are done playing", we never seemed to be done playing and my Mom would end up picking up and putting away. I always had a slight twinge of guilt watching my mother cleaning up after me, but never enough guilt to pitch-in and help. I am convinced that moms let their kids make forts because first, it gets them out of the way for a while and second, somewhere in the dark recesses of their childhood memories they remember having a blast doing it themselves.

The Outside fort could be built out of odds and ends of lumber, bent nails and then placed over a deep hole dug in the lawn, or vacant lot, or it could be a large appliance box or series of boxes with windows and doors cut into it using Mom's best kitchen knife. In the first instance the deeper the hole, the better. With a make-shift roof in place you had a foxhole type structure which provided protection during dirt clod wars with friends and enemies. Yes we really threw clods of dirt at each other and we threw them hard with the intent of inflicting severe pain. Yeah I realize that now it is probably a crime to have dirt clod wars and children caught doing it are probably labeled as violent and forced to go to counseling. In the second instance the cardboard box fort provided a shady place to read books on a summer day or to campout in or just to play. The ultimate was to have a large appliance box, turn it on the side, and make it into a "tank". This was accomplished as the occupants walked on hands and knees forward or backward moving the box across the yard. It was pretty much like a cardboard "hamster ball" for kids only without the see through feature. Not being able to see where you were going only added to the excitement.

I was just thinking today how much fun I had playing with my siblings and friends in forts. Don't get me wrong I am not advocating that we get ride of X-box, Ipods, computer games, Dish TV etc. Nor do I suggest that children be given empty boxes for Christmas gifts. Trust me I like my computer and Dish TV, I was just enjoying some good memories, this seems to happen with more frequency now as my hair turns greyer.

So what the heck let the kids build a fort, they are on break from school, might as well let them sleep in it too, I can promise they are going to ask if they can. Have a Merry Christmas and a happy new year!

Eruption

My youngest daughter called her mother today from school asking if she could come to pick her up because she didn't feel well. Melinda obliged, and as she and Mary were walking down the hall to leave, Mary began to barf. After leaving three large pools of noxious liquid on the hall carpet Melinda managed to get Mary into the restroom to finish the job. Melinda nonchalantly mentioned to the school secretary that there was some vomit in the hall. Without flinching the secretary said "Yeah that is going around, I'll call the custodian".

Memories from my own elementary school days came flooding back as Melinda told me the story over the phone. I can smell it now, vomit and that powder stuff the custodian would sprinkle on it before he cleaned it up. I remember at lunch one day at Crow Elementary school when one of the Pitch kids who had recently begun to use smokeless tobacco and put some into a fellow classmate's plate of stew. This resulted in an instantaneous violent eruption of projectile chunk blowing. Sympathetic puking began almost immediately by students sitting near by. Not unlike the pie eating scene from the movie "Stand by Me". On one occasion I remember feeling a little green but was determined not to throw up because it is such an unpleasant experience. I was sitting in my desk on the top floor of the school listening to the teacher and trying very hard not to blow. It was a warm spring day and the room felt stuffy and uncomfortable. A quarter sized amount of stomach contents made it through and onto my desk. I looked around nobody seemed to notice, only fifteen minutes left in class and I could make a break for it. Unexpectedly the teacher stopped talking, looked at me and asked, "John are you feeling sick?" I remember thinking "what a stupid question", "No I feel great that is why there is a small pool of partially digested food on my desk". I began to respond, all that came out was "Ralph! Aaarrfff, sploosh!" the torrential flow hit the desk top and spilled onto the floor. I felt as if the Devil himself was being pulled kicking and screaming from my stomach. My teacher looked at me crossly and said, "Get your things and go home", there was none of this be certain to stop at the office to sign out or to call your parents to be certain somebody was home etc. In those days it was pretty much a no-nonsense approach. Virtually everybody's mother was at home and there was no question that I could walk the half mile home, so what if I had the dry heaves and was hallucinating. I didn't worry too much about what my classmates would think, they had all done something similar and besides the girl I had a crush on was not at school that day due to an upset stomach.

My daughter commented on the ride home, "Well that was embarrassing", my wife attempted to calm her fears said well nobody saw you do it except one third grade boy. Fortunately it was not the third grade boy she has a crush on, unfortunately he is a third grade boy and third grade boys like to talk about stuff like barfing. Her only hope is that he gets sick also.

So as the holiday season is upon us, try not to over do it with the food and drink. If you have to vomit try to do it in private. Trying to hold it never works and as Shriek says "Better out then in". One other thing for those of you who consume alcohol to the point of barfing, what is with that? It certainly can't be much fun hugging the base of a toilet puking your guts out.

Rabbits, raisins and "Peeky the Butt Cheek Elf"

I know the reason for the season is to celebrate the birth of Jesus Christ Savior of all mankind. Today however I have been reflecting upon Christmas memories having to do with families. I do not think it would take much of a stretch to link families with Christ's birth etc, etc, so you Purists can settle down and enjoy or run off screaming blasphemy! warning all creatures great and small to not read this blog.

One of the Christmas memories my mother is fond of telling and she has told to everyone she meets around Christmas, has to do with a rabbit and it's dropping. To my children, wife, and my siblings, nieces, nephews, and anyone else who has been told this story more than once I am truly sorry for the pain you may well be reliving. I am only going to touch on it briefly. As the legend goes Santa Claus (wink, wink, nudge, nudge) had bestowed the gift of a real live white rabbit to the wee Slaughter children. Upon entering the living room to inspect the booty (the pirate definition of booty not the Snoop Doggie Dog one) we were reportedly delighted to see the rabbit hopping around. My sister always thinking of food made the observation that the rabbit had left some raisins behind for us. My parents, by my mother's report, broke into fits of laughter and nearly wet themselves. I remember none of this and only have my mother's word on it since Dad has been dead for 25 years. I do remember that the candy canes and carmel pop-corn balls in the stocking were infested with ants and I was more than a little annoyed by the fact that Santa had brought insect infested goods into the house.

My wife reminded me of a Christmas memory relating to our own children. My mother had purchased a book called "Peeky the Curious Elf" for the children, they liked it and read it a great deal. In some of the drawings of "Peeky" his pants ride just a tad bit low, I am certain the intent was to make the story even more charming. My oldest daughter, a blossoming artist decided that the original artist had left out an important detail, the "butt crack". She in a very uniform and anatomically correct manner added the "butt cheeks" to the drawings of "Peeky". When she was done the children renamed the book "Peeky the Butt Cheek Elf". Melinda and I had a good laugh as we talked about it. Melinda is going to see if she can find a copy of the book someplace and give it as a gift to all of the kids next year. Of course we'll have Kristine do the artistic editing first.

I also remember the Christmas before my grandfather Slaughter died. I was just 6 years old at the time but the trip made an impression on me, not because grandpa was dying because I didn't know that at the time, but because of the trip we took that Christmas Eve. I distinctly remember my parents loading all of us children in our pajamas into the back of the old Volkswagen van with some luggage and packages and heading out into the night. We were traveling from our home in Ukiah to Bakersfield, a trip of 400 miles on old highways, this was pre-interstate. I know that as I faded in and out of sleep during the trip my main concern had to do with how Santa was going to find us and deliver the gifts that night in Bakersfield and not to our empty home in Ukiah. My father who always loved Christmas sensed my concern and reassured me that Santa had been alerted to our temporary new address that evening. This placated me for a while but I was till uneasy about the whole thing. Later in the trip my father said "Hey look kids there is Santa and his sleigh, he is heading the same direction we are, I'm certain he knows were to find us" as he pointed up into the star lit night skies. I strained my eyes and to this day I am pretty certain I saw Santa and his reindeer, either that or some blood vessels burst in my eyes because I was looking so hard, but you get the picture. The next morning we woke up to some gifts and stockings and spent a day or two playing with our toys. I don't remember seeing grandpa very much during that visit, but it has been a good memory for me over the years. It helped cement in my mind that my father knew what he was talking about and I could trust him. Thinking about it now makes me miss him a great deal. He never got to see his own grandchildren open their gifts on Christmas and I have often wondered what it would be like to see him with his grandchildren at Christmas, to hear him speak to the Nisa man in Danish in reference to each of the children.

Anyway enjoy Christmas this year, piss poor economy and all. If your father is still alive don't take him for granted this Christmas, if he is gone think of those good Christmas pasts. Merry Christmas!

"Dad you're like Kung Fu Panda."

It has been a while since I have posted a blog, but life has been busy. The new dog needed to be spayed, the Tahoe had to go in to the body shop to be fixed, I spent a whole weekend in Afton and Rock Springs for work, I tolerated a 2 hour CES in-service and had my Institute class observed by the CES "dude" from Casper, and I tested for 2 martial art belts.
So today is Thanksgiving and at 5am, I woke Miller up to go hunting with me, he didn't want to get up. Melinda got very ill so I decided to stay home and get the food ready. Melinda wouldn't let me do the pies, she is considering letting me do the rolls. I did the turkey and stuffing and will almost certainly be able to peel the spuds without being challenged for the job.
I am looking forward to going hunting tomorrow, Sandi (the new dog) has recovered from her surgery and I hope we can find some pheasants to shoot. Miller and I have a couple of deer tags to fill so the weekend may shape up nicely as long as I don't get sick and provided Miller will get up at 5am.
Michael recently tested for and earned his red belt. In 6 months he can test for his black belt. I think it is pretty cool that he has stuck with it and has developed a pretty decent jump double kick. I have made it to green belt which is the fourth belt in rank in the long line road to black belt. I managed to do it in 6 months. Not too bad for a middle aged fat guy. I still haven't mastered the jump double kick yet, but the ground shakes when I do a back break fall and my bo staff skills are beginning to take shape. A couple of weeks ago at the end of a particularly long and strenuous practice as we were walking out to the car, Michael and Mary both said "Dad you're like Kung Fu Panda". I was not certain if this was meant to be a compliment or a gentle slap down. I asked what they meant by the comment, both answered in unison "I don't know". Normally I would take this to mean they didn't want to hurt my feelings and thus used the "I don't know" card to save their skins. I had not held out any delusion that I resemble a grey haired Jackie Chan or anything so on this occasion I allowed myself the luxury of thinking "Kung Fu Panda? Hummmm, well he did turn out to be pretty cool by the end of the movie". So now I am working on figuring out the "Wooshy finger hold" so I can impress the judges at the next test, and perhaps I'll use Micheal and Mary to it demonstrate on.
Have a good Thanksgiving everyone. Jim, I wish I could be at the Chili Bowl this year.

A Great Day

O.K. so the election is over. History has been made, let us just hope that President-Elect Obama is up to the task and will do no lasting damage to our freedoms. Having now covered this topic I would like to describe a great day I had. Melinda has a great gift for knowing what can make me happy. With a birthday coming up in a few days she recognized that I might be happy with a new dog. I believe that this idea came after she read my last blog about dogs. A few days ago an opportunity came for me to get a rescue dog from Cheyenne. Not just any dog but a 5 month old registered Brittany Spaniel named Sandi. On Saturday Miller, Mary and I drove to Douglas and met the people who were giving up Sandi. After some tears by those saying goodbye to Sandi, we loaded her into the Tahoe and headed for home. All and all she has settled in pretty well, she is not as well trained as we were led to believe. The up side of this is that we can train her as we want to. I have been interested to see if Sandi had any hunting instincts, this morning as I was following her on her morning walk she came to point and flushed a pheasant, then flushed three more. I was pretty excited, this dog can hunt. I waited until about 9am and called an old hunting buddy to see if he was doing anything today and if he knew of a good place to hunt pheasants. He said well you got a new dog and I got a new shotgun sounds like a deal. We met at 10am and within 30 minutes were hunting. To make a potentially long story short, Sandi did pretty well for her first day hunting. I got to shoot my gun several times, I was able to spend time with a good friend I haven’t hunted with for years and we got our limit of pheasants. My back hurts, I’m tired but I can’t stop smiling, I called Melinda and said “I had a great day”! I hope to have more great days recognizing of course that there will be some crap days mixed in। I hope you had a great day and if not I hope you have one real soon.

Dogs

Today I had a phone call from an old social work colleague. He moved to Florida several years ago and we seem to touch base about this time every year. I suspect it is because he misses hunting in the fall. He typically asks how the hunting is going. Today he asked how Kristine's wedding went, and told me about his trip to Alaska fishing with his wife. We talked a bit about fishing here in Wyoming, the conversation drifted to bird hunting with Pheasant season set to open this weekend. He informed me that his Black Lab, Katie had died recently. She had lived for 16 years and had been a great dog to hunt with.
After I said goodbye it was not long before my mind was filled with memories about the different dogs I've owned or known. So many stories, you know with every dog there is always at least one good story.
My father loved dogs, he used to talk about a Boston Terrier Bulldog he had when he was a boy. The dogs name was Buster and would ride in the basket on his bike as he delivered news papers each day. My parents told me that a Springer Spaniel named Sam had taught me to walk. The legend is that Sam would come up to the couch where I had been perched by my mother to keep me out of trouble, I would slide down his back to the ground, grab a handful of fur and he would walk me around the room. Sam met with a bad end, he was shot by a rancher for chasing sheep with some other dogs. I suppose the lesson here is to be careful what kind of crowd you run around with. Princess was the most famous dog in my family of origin's lore. She was a beautiful Irish Setter, who unlike many Irish Setters actually was pretty intelligent. Princess went wherever my father went. Dad was once accused of having an affair with a red head by some one who thought that Princess' hair and ears flopping out of the window was Dad drove by belonged to a woman. There are too many stories about Princess to tell them all, one of my favorites was about the pigeons. Dad used to raise and race pigeons as a hobby when I was a young boy. He had saved some money to purchase a male and female pair of pigeons from a well known breeder a few hours away. Early in the morning he put an empty bird cage and Princess in the old Ford station wagon and headed off. After picking up his new birds he drove for home. On the way he stopped at a café to get something to eat. When he arrived at the car following his meal he found Princess in the front seat with both pigeons hanging out of her mouth. Apparently she was very pleased with herself, presenting these birds she had got to Dad. He always said that he did not know if he should laugh or cry. He did not take Princess with him when he went to get the next pair of birds.
My brother Jim had a dog once named Scooby, she was some kind of cow dog. Scooby moved with us from Montana to California, to Washington State. While I did not have much use for Scooby Jim certain was attached to her. Jim called me the other day and asked if I needed a dog. I know enough to know that generally if some one calls you and offers a free dog that there is a catch. I asked probing questions about this dog Jim was offering. What I discovered was that Louie (the dog in question) was part something and part something else. He likes to jump straight up and has the peculiar habit of jumping to the top of a 6 foot fence perching on the top of the fence like a bird and then jumping down only to wreck havoc in the neighborhood. I declined, I'm on thin ice with my neighbors already.
My own family has certainly owned several dogs with colorful personalities. There was Lucky, Rusty, Chester, Erminguard, Kate and Sadie. We know have Patches, he now a very old Dalmatian. All of these dogs hold some place in our hearts and mean more to some than to others in the family.
It is funny the bond that can develop between people and dogs. I remember getting my first dog. My Jr. High School science teacher Mr. Conlin had some Black Lab puppies for sale for $10.00. I took $10.00 of my lawn mowing money and picked out a male puppy, I named him Champ. My father and I had visions of Champ becoming a great hunting dog. He certainly had good instincts and showed some promise, but he also had one trait that was not conducive to living among the Native Americans on the Reservation we lived on. He would try to bite anyone who was not white. I had to make certain he was tied up all of the time. I had to be careful when I brought home my Native American friends etc. We talked to Mr. Conlin who confirmed that Champs mother had the same trait. Champ was a big powerful dog who was known to pull his dog house behind him down the street as he chased people. Obviously this was not working out very well. Dad found a rancher friend who lived in a remote part of Eastern Montana who was willing to take Champ. Dad and I had both hunted on his ranch over the years a. It was a long drive home from the ranch and while I was upset at having to let Champ go, I also felt a sense of relief that I did not have to worry about him anymore. Not long after that we moved to California.
Approximately five years ago I was seeing veterans on the medical unit of the VA hospital I work at, I came across a veteran who had the same last name and whose address was in the same proximity of the rancher who had taken Champ. As I talked with him and his wife I asked if they remembered my father, his wife said that she did because she had worked with him at the HIS Hospital in Crow Agency, MT. The rancher could not remember his name, his wife explained that he could not remember people's names very well anymore. On a whim I asked, "do you remember a 14 year old kid who gave you a Black Lab about 30 years ago or so". He smiled and replied, "I think that dogs name was Champ wasn't it, he sure was a good bird dog, I hunted with him a lot". His wife replied that he had the uncanny ability to remember every dog he has ever known. I enjoyed a few minutes of conversation with them after explaining that I was that kid who gave him the dog. It was nice to know that Champ had lived a good life and it gave some closure to that part of my life.
So take a moment to think about a dog you really loved and spend some time petting the one you now have. I for one am grateful that God put dogs on earth with us, they make us laugh and cry. I have learned a great deal from them over the years. Maybe I'll get myself another hunting dog. Right now the new kittens we just got are itching to be played with, have a good week.

Cassarole, wooden spoons and table forks

I was sitting here thinking about the upcoming weekend, I am looking forward to going out with my wife for dinner and a movie. We have not been able to go out for some time due to the "wedding" preparations. Kristine is married now so there is a brief break in the action. This will not last long because Karlee has recently announced that she and Alex will be getting married in March. I can already hear the sucking sound money makes as it is drained from an account. Back on topic, I was thinking about food and where Melinda and I would go to eat and suddenly the memory of eggplant casserole came to mind. More a nightmare than a pleasant dream.
I can see it and smell it now, an intrusion from the black recesses of my mind. My mother, known more for being "practical" than for being a good cook had scored a large quantity of eggplant. We had for days been subjected to fried eggplant, fried eggplant and maple syrup, eggplant sandwiches, eggplant ice cream and still we had not exhausted our supply of eggplant. Eggplant cannot be canned or frozen (she'd already tried that), hence the eggplant casserole. I will tell you this, it was just nasty tasting and not even slightly visually appealing. There were copious amounts of casserole left following dinner that night. Not to be deterred chef Catherine placed the leftovers in the refrigerator. Two nights later (thinking we had forgotten) the dish was resurrected only this time disguised by the addition of zucchini slices, cream of mushroom soup, bread crumbs and velveta cheese. Mom further attempted to enhance the deception by taking a large steaming spoonful and with a smile take a large bite, almost instantly the smile vanished and she struggled to choke down the mouthful of food. Her customers unimpressed did not touch their portions. We all packed up and went to some fast food place, Mom leading the retreat. What is it that Obama said, he can put lipstick on and still be a pig..., no wait you can put lipstick on a pig and it is still a pig, yeah that's it.
My mother did teach me a few things about cooking, mainly things not to do. I also learned from her how to dodge a wooden spoon with the speed and agility of a gazelle. Do you know it isn't that bad being hit by a wooden spoon, particularly if you can make a good forearm block which will usually break a wooden spoon. This provides enough time to make an escape from the kitchen with stolen cookies in hand. I also learned that taking a direct hit from a metal spatula is painful, they typically do not break unless your mother is really mad and almost always leave a mark.
I always wondered why most of the good food mothers cook end up at the PTA bake sale, Relief Society dinners, funerals, DUP (Daughters of the Utah Pioneers) meeting or are provided to Sister Rabbit's family each time she has a baby. It may be because in order to make good food you have to have, time, and good ingredients. It could be the belief that if you do not bring good food to one of the above mentioned events then people will talk about the sad fare you contributed. Besides it isn't like the old man or the kids are going to leave home over poor food (they may go to the Maverick and buy a hot dog and a coke). What the heck if the husband or one of the kids leaves for a while there is just less laundry to do. But they like a bad penny always come back don't they.
Flying forks, just ask my brother Jim, it is true, if you throw a plain old metal table fork hard enough it will pierce clothing and penetrate human flesh. Jim experienced this first hand when we were kids and I hucked a fork at him. The fork stuck in his leg as he made a valiant attempt to avoid the speeding fork. I freaked a bit at the sound of his screams and the sight of the fork sticking out of him. Then I thought that was cool. It stuck!
One of my grand mothers scared the living daylights out of me once in the kitchen when I was about 12 years old. She was not a very happy person in the later years of life, and if she had the notion to she would haul off and whack you upside the head with her hand or whatever object was handy. I seemed to be one of her favorite targets, I suspect this was due to the fact that I was an ugly kid and prone to be a smart-aleck. On this occasion I had managed to get grandmother's knickers in a twist while I was in the kitchen making an after school snack, (a jellied eggplant and peanut butter sandwich). I sensed that she was about to strike and with sandwich in hand I began to make a move to get out of her reach, she countered by grabbing the first handy object, a butcher knife. I I dropped the sandwich and nearly evacuated my bowel's on the spot. I managed to get by her and safely out of the kitchen. Looking back on this event I doubt that grandmother would have cut me up too bad, maybe just enough to teach me a lesson, that's all. To this day I am not a big fan of slasher movies, the first time I saw the shower scene in the movie "Psycho" it scared the pee-waddlee out of me.
On this note, kids be nice to grandmother, hide the butcher knives and wooden spoons, and wear proactive eye gear when having a fork fight with your siblings (some one could lose an eye). Have a good week.

Uncouth Conversation

October 21, 2008

This is my first attempt at "blogging". I have watched with envy as my wife has entered her thoughts and observations in her blog for others to view. So below is my contribution to informal literature.

The other day I was heard to to one of my adult daughters (Mindy), "That was disgusting!" as the car filled with methane gas so bad I could taste it. We were whizzing down the interstate crossing Montana on our way home to Wyoming after our eldest daughter's wedding in Idaho. Mindy's sharp and not unexpected reply was"It wasn't me!...it was Michael!". Soon a conversation ensued on the topic of human methane gas production. The next words from my mouth were "would you all stop this uncouth conversation!". My hope was that the five children riding with me would indeed change the focus of their conversation. I realized I had just said something one of my parents had said to me on similar occasions in my youth. "Oh crap!' I thought, another one of those I am turning into my father/mother moments.

So the word Uncouth (`un-kooth') according to the dictionary means; Crude, unrefined. I had used the word correctly and it applied to the conversation in the car. Similarly my parents had appropriately applied it to me and my siblings' conversations many years earlier on numerous occasions, likely on the very stretch of interstate I had recently been traveling with my children.

What got me thinking was the ready recognition on my part that I am certainly not the most refined person on the planet. I think Larry the Cable Guy is funny, I do not care who you are..... After all both of my parents while college educated had come from blue collar working class families raised during the Great Depression. My father unwittingly taught me to swear while working on cars and I learned the complete "Gene, Gene, made a machine...." song from him when I was in second grade. My mother was noted to swear a blue streak in the kitchen when she burned her hand taking the eggplant casserole out of the oven. (Eggplant casserole? you ask, well that is a topic better left for another day). One of her favorites was "Son of a #$%*@!".

Think about it, the facade of refinement. Nobody would suspect the Queen of "letting one rip" at a formal dinner or at any time for that matter only to blame it on one of her cute little dogs. (No offense meant to those of you related to the Queen). I doubt that any of the Prophet's children, grandchildren etc. will ever relate the time when grandpa said "pull my finger" after a heavy meal. BUT we all know it happens to them just like it does to us. I do however find some joy in the idea that those of us who express ourselves freely in this arena are immensely happier than those who stifle the urge to the point of near explosion. I only know one person whose flatulence does not smell odoriferous and that is my mother in law. I believe this only because she insists it is the truth and I have never know her to lie.

Imagine if you will reading a Jane Austin novel or better still watching a BBC version of "Pride and Prejudice" or "Sense and Sensibility" (You know the one with Colin Firth or Hugh Grant) only to see the characters engage in a conversation about how Miss Mary Anne or Mr. Willaby were "crop dusting" at the ball. Picture this, handsome Mr. Darcy speaking with his obnoxious aunt, he pauses, slightly lifts one leg while holding a glass of wine, holds his breath, strains and bust a "grumpy". With a tone of utter dismay he hollers at the butler "Jeeves!.... no more steak and kidney pie for you!". At this the whole room breaks up in riotous laughter including the obnoxious aunt. Not an overly romantic moment. I suppose that is why Rowan Atkins in his pre-Mr. Bean days had a whopping success with the Black Adder series on BBC.

I hope I have given you something to think about. Perhaps at some future date I'll write about every ones favorite medical symptom, diarrhea. Until then don't pull any ones finger, and keep a dog handy. I have to go now and prepare my Institute lesson.

John