For blogs with less than 300 Followers

For blogs with less than 300 Followers
Thanks to Hestia's Larder for this delightful award.
(For Blogs with less than 300 Followers)

Friday, 21 October 2011


I kid you not, ths popped up on the browser after a search of "Murrain".  If I get a terminal disease, I want it to look like this.

A Murrain on Tele-Marketers and Estate Agents.

After having spent a morning in such pitiful pursuits as plastering and painting, I was relaxing on the porch swing in the afternoon sunlight.
I felt a much-earned doze fast approaching and just as the arms of Lethe were enveloping my consciousness, the phone began ringing.

Thinking it was my beloved phoning with some last minute details regarding the redecoration. I sprang to my feet and sprinted to the phone.
Did I wish to subscribe to a hotel discount card, which would allow me to gain access to a chain of international deluxe hotels for the princely sum of $250, which entitled me to a substantial discount of 40% of advertised prices, and which would also allow me 50% discount on meals or other entertainments at these purveyors of luxury accommodation and relaxation?



The demented bitch on the phone blithely continued with her (obviously) scripted message of luxury holidays.

I said a very rude word and hung up, returning to my still-swinging porch swing via the liquor cabinet with a brief appointment with Mr Dewars' finest.

The warming afternoon sunlight played gently on my varicosed and blue-white nether regions as I drifted off again.  Who would I fantasise dream  about now. Gina? Bridgette? Emily?

The phone went again and scuttling over to the anticipated voice of my beloved, I instead spoke to G******.  An estate agent we spoke to 2 weeks ago regarding the possibility of putting our house on the market.  (More on this later, with particular attention to the frequency which my beloved changed her mind regarding desired town, location, type and price of her our desired abode.)

Will these people ever leave me alone?

I just want to f*cking sleep.

Returned to porch swing via Mr Dewars.

Dozing blissful semi-consciousness beckoned.

Was that the sound of my beloved's car in the driveway?



  1. "Was that the sound of my beloved's car in the driveway?"

    Ha! That rings a bell with me. When I've been lazing about during the week and don't expect my beloved to be home for a few more hours or even the next day, the sound of her car in the driveway sends me into a spin.

  2. It just goes to prove that blokes are born with a guilty conscience.

    Maybe the Catholics are onto something with the concept of original sin?

  3. Started with a case of terminal moraine and ends in frustration. Will this man never get the peace and quiet he deserves.

    If that's a photo of your porch I can't understand why your beloved one would want to move at all. Nice porch, nice view and a man so inebriated by self-medication that he won't stray far. Sounds fine to me.

  4. Alistair: It's not our actual porch swing, but not far off.
    I agree, I don't want to move, but when someonegets itchy feet, what's a man to do?

    (PS Strychnine and Cyanide are too easily detectible)

  5. Sometimes when I'm babysitting for our girls while Kirsty, their mum, is out gallivanting, I hear the door go and I hurriedly close the browser.

    What happens in the next several seconds is that the browser takes agonisingly long to close itself down in proportion to the sauciness of the educational material I have been perusing.

  6. looby: Yes, I've noticed that. It's called the Law of Pornographic Consequences.

  7. I've had telephone salespeople hang up on me when I give them a detailed account of my bass practice. I don't get it, they don't seem interested in a two way conversation.


Related Posts Plugin for WordPress, Blogger...
Site Meter