tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-210185392024-03-23T18:31:53.566+00:00Wilf's WorldWilfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15255247027469318384noreply@blogger.comBlogger160125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21018539.post-45634949206983156212009-01-30T18:59:00.002+00:002009-01-30T19:06:40.200+00:00Bye For Now<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjH19uT7zLGwYq8A5J6pe_LOX8Uf3PNbj45n-E8SUkJ2vk3k93eyz2u4R-SdFNIJLob-W3fQ8s02N_xMWIJJ2mcD7ES8Md0GEUqcBL2U-GT1zdHY8WVla_jd5dlUFeNepzsU1Rj/s1600-h/aliens2.bmp"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 207px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjH19uT7zLGwYq8A5J6pe_LOX8Uf3PNbj45n-E8SUkJ2vk3k93eyz2u4R-SdFNIJLob-W3fQ8s02N_xMWIJJ2mcD7ES8Md0GEUqcBL2U-GT1zdHY8WVla_jd5dlUFeNepzsU1Rj/s320/aliens2.bmp" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5297164920985775490" border="0" /></a><br />I am very very busy building new inventions with Granpa Jack and dad is paying me <span style="font-style: italic;">actual</span> money to catalogue his teeth. It is all go and that is even without George and his savage stick-insect-eating ways. So it is bye for now until I come back.Wilfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15255247027469318384noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21018539.post-6054529232005981682009-01-17T20:13:00.013+00:002009-01-18T11:32:56.418+00:00I Have No Mercy<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihs9eyEcg_d3gOr3WnBe_akBakLUhYvQTFQT7TSCZo3lbhf9RjoCKaHFNvCkzpWrFybzt-I03nh9UOhXu3IDvOBALEe2L71bhS106eX3Q1lyZN1q3IBlKGtt9V6m1gesfMn2AJ/s1600-h/enter+the+dragon.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 93px; height: 124px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihs9eyEcg_d3gOr3WnBe_akBakLUhYvQTFQT7TSCZo3lbhf9RjoCKaHFNvCkzpWrFybzt-I03nh9UOhXu3IDvOBALEe2L71bhS106eX3Q1lyZN1q3IBlKGtt9V6m1gesfMn2AJ/s320/enter+the+dragon.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5292591321348645250" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://scoop.diamondgalleries.com/public/default.asp?t=1&m=1&c=34&s=264&ai=42183&ssd=11/23/2002&arch=y"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 285px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh38aJmK7NcLWGBpLNg7HRSA9hSK2UGzzSu_Gfu8dbR7KkP1n2vqlNLfU16c-hB5LFfrICLnNx38RU6jHhKcjseKrTM10LNCqmcUXChMiVoJUIGhSjtJOREGA97utJByN3hGlR5/s320/Dick+Tracy+dart+gun.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5292588031761013154" border="0" /></a>So, Mum is going out to the first Parent- teacher meeting in 2009. This is where she will shout at the new Parent-Governor, Dexter's Dad, Dave Dooley about eating too many sweets and keeping his bungalows out of school. I am glad I am not there because she has also begun a class in Karate. The election has definitely brought out a difficult side to her.<br />Anyway, she has left me in charge of my brother, George. Actually she left Dad in charge of George but he is Very Busy making important modifications to my Scalectrix track and Cannot Be Disturbed.<br />'Come on, George,' I say, 'let's go upstairs and play with my Dick Tracy set.' This is what Grandpa Jack gave me for Christmas. He says he had to stop using it because there were complaints from the other residents in his, Home for Retired Gentlefolk. So now I've got it.<br />After Dad's major <span style="font-size:130%;">explosion</span> last week, I am not taking any chances with being seen. George starts <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhl_xg5Z8lzXXw_TJDDnDLIXaORh2tEPL3e06gabCiahD5ud3kTsDZ4xByUqLygw6DMWq3ckQjQGVgaaE3JbICgoY9SJcF9yTiHn1dHar-EYl1IWT-sjH6bNHklOLJNsM4XPlIh/s1600-h/Serena+-+proceed.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 138px; height: 88px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhl_xg5Z8lzXXw_TJDDnDLIXaORh2tEPL3e06gabCiahD5ud3kTsDZ4xByUqLygw6DMWq3ckQjQGVgaaE3JbICgoY9SJcF9yTiHn1dHar-EYl1IWT-sjH6bNHklOLJNsM4XPlIh/s320/Serena+-+proceed.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5292589939342088914" border="0" /></a>off the first step okay but then gets stuck.<br />'Wait a minute,' I say and run up stairs. I find my cat, Serena lolling about on my bed and carry her like a baby. She sits at the top of the stairs watching him struggle and saying nothing. George begins scaling the stairs like a mini James Bond. He is also giggling and stops every so often to point at Serena. He is in love with her. She is<span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-style: italic;"> never</span></span> impressed with him.<br />Just before he can grab her, she gets up and says, 'My work here is done,' and heads for the spare room. As soon as she is out of sight, George forgets about her and starts examining the carpet for cat bits.<br />'Are you ready for some target practise, George?' I whisper. 'You're the Evil Henchman and I'm Dick Tracy.'<br />I stand at the end of the landing and take aim with my tag dart gun. The Evil Henchman dribbles. The doorbell rings and the dart hits the wall. I reload. The Evil Henchman has picked up some bits from the floor and is eating them. I cannot wait for blood poisoning to take him out so I try a head shot.<br />'WILFRED!' Dad calls. 'WHAT ARE YOU DOING?'<br />'Nothing!'<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirHxI1cPaWl7sat_ij9tsKTnkKEDmmT6sGexsFiSFN-gMPu33VAUwVgWSLNS7Kx5wxoV7uRQxjL8l4idJ0Q599TIcBfQvdPYS6eKyS8EDxZTWm-zS5q4NKrTT0cbtWf0xUl9Rt/s1600-h/evil+henchman.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 82px; height: 82px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirHxI1cPaWl7sat_ij9tsKTnkKEDmmT6sGexsFiSFN-gMPu33VAUwVgWSLNS7Kx5wxoV7uRQxjL8l4idJ0Q599TIcBfQvdPYS6eKyS8EDxZTWm-zS5q4NKrTT0cbtWf0xUl9Rt/s320/evil+henchman.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5292594957355991506" border="0" /></a><br />The dart lands on the bathroom door. Evil Henchman is holding arms up in pathetic surrender but I have no mercy.<br />Reload. Aim. Fire.<br />'GRANDPA JACK IS HERE!'<br />'Coming.' <span style="font-style: italic;">Yes</span>. The dart has brought down the enemy. Another case solved.Wilfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15255247027469318384noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21018539.post-85778031764149942382009-01-09T10:30:00.006+00:002009-01-09T11:17:08.123+00:00My Dad and Other Explosions<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dykOyLxVkhFJWyrT3_kcdDX2B3axwG4KCL9sLAmK2TdlidJXjTYIvOeE8VENVr-IRbup1TDS1e7PnQ' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe><br /><br />My Dad says that, 'you're developing a bit of an attitude there, Wilfred. I don't like the way you keep telling your brother what to do.'<br />'How else is he going to learn?' I ask. 'I have only shot him twice with my dart-tag-super-gun (present from Granpa Jack, yay) and he actually LIKES it.'<br />'There you go again,' he says and now he is all twitchy, 'answering back!' He is jigging from one foot to the other. 'In my day children were told things and they nodded their heads to show they understood.'<br />'I do understand,' I say and I nod my head for good measure. 'You're just wrong.'<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgl0lfCNbUCPlONUA_C26oEaFq4Fs6Zj-UfPByCOvq1h9iigmD7HYYUwLLd03i0rP0LPn8YNsrxQQ4eeZ66WC38nqgQx3HrAR5QdRtEH2DK8lXTtOOQqTl_d2EPARxGXbg1Mld/s1600-h/fight.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 120px; height: 111px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgl0lfCNbUCPlONUA_C26oEaFq4Fs6Zj-UfPByCOvq1h9iigmD7HYYUwLLd03i0rP0LPn8YNsrxQQ4eeZ66WC38nqgQx3HrAR5QdRtEH2DK8lXTtOOQqTl_d2EPARxGXbg1Mld/s320/fight.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5289250008320936546" border="0" /></a><br />Dad puffs up, turns red and blows a fuse. 'Just think of all the starving orphans in this world, Wilfred!' I give this idea a good go but I am not sure how it is the same as me shooting George. 'Think how lucky you are! My goodness, if you were living in Victorian times you'd most likely be <span style="font-style: italic;">beaten</span> or badly maimed for answering back. One day you'll be in my trousers, Wilfred,' I shudder. 'When I think of all ...' and he's off, thinking out loud of all the things I should be grateful for. I wander off for a quick play with my scalectrix.<br />Happy New Year.Wilfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15255247027469318384noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21018539.post-16048340952638699032008-12-17T21:23:00.015+00:002008-12-17T22:42:52.632+00:00My Christmas Present To YouIt's <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSxMsqOmyH3csnj2SCQgLdfmcPjjG4gW6L4CUDi1zmMkWlZW6Dxv-fUQc80gSTsFw6tcgTTwXnAYUBWJoAzUMG6tavR7TUF2b9OI_CdPHk3jp41r4NhyphenhyphenyIqAW5L7R1553a-8mJ/s1600-h/cat+xmas+card.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 113px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSxMsqOmyH3csnj2SCQgLdfmcPjjG4gW6L4CUDi1zmMkWlZW6Dxv-fUQc80gSTsFw6tcgTTwXnAYUBWJoAzUMG6tavR7TUF2b9OI_CdPHk3jp41r4NhyphenhyphenyIqAW5L7R1553a-8mJ/s320/cat+xmas+card.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5280876309620485602" border="0" /></a>Christmas, nearly and Mum is absolutely empty of christmas cheer because Dave Dooley has won the parent governor fight. He has already given out free giant bags of sweets to us all which is brilliant. Except I will not be allowed to eat them at home so I have given them to Dexter for safekeeping. Hmmm. Everyone has had a threatening letter telling us that Mrs Trundle will be back after Christmas and Mr Bagnall has told us to enjoy the holiday.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSbulRcgikqMyzCNGHMg63VDJQLxInxMyTlcGwImxPmfY_9OPvDQk7zzsjR411lPVZSFUhQ_BAi0Z3m7tGJtElr4Qc6NQeQpJkAc0GkGnl92ONxszO3rbk4SEtHfg8Isuz3zKp/s1600-h/crazy+xmas+tree.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 89px; height: 130px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSbulRcgikqMyzCNGHMg63VDJQLxInxMyTlcGwImxPmfY_9OPvDQk7zzsjR411lPVZSFUhQ_BAi0Z3m7tGJtElr4Qc6NQeQpJkAc0GkGnl92ONxszO3rbk4SEtHfg8Isuz3zKp/s320/crazy+xmas+tree.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5280876131561701586" border="0" /></a><br />Dexter's dad has bought the biggest christmas tree in the entire galaxy while my dad reycled one from last year and it is rubbish. For some reason, he has stuck some massive bird decorations on it. They are quite bad. Mum says that because George is bursting out of his baby suits and is walking (not my idea of walking unless you need at least two knee operations) we cannot <span style="font-style: italic;">'take the risk with a big tree' </span>because he might try and eat it or decorate himself with it. He needs to grow up.<br /><br />Here is my Christmas present to you. It is an action movie for you to enjoy in case James Bond isn't on. Happy Christmas.<br /><br /><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dxK6w-7_97fTiEAodHLOwKupA-Ou_T1_G2RSg1KNQNqik0cYfE8Wbk97k-eWlqieWAJ3DR0K-D6Zcw' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe>Wilfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15255247027469318384noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21018539.post-85177203770596269352008-11-30T09:57:00.010+00:002008-11-30T11:28:15.290+00:00Local Parent Governor Politics Turned Nasty<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3NM-MkCTGPNBM2m9vacfUeOyeCPseJ-i-vCUJzxVOaWjm7WxIPzmzHZeIr7YwFXBtwtbMix1LE3cYcjHTbI7DANbpPZkzQPMuDVcd7HZcfkuxujU9sxsHQwGYMCuiZs_Pobjp/s1600-h/W.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 84px; height: 105px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3NM-MkCTGPNBM2m9vacfUeOyeCPseJ-i-vCUJzxVOaWjm7WxIPzmzHZeIr7YwFXBtwtbMix1LE3cYcjHTbI7DANbpPZkzQPMuDVcd7HZcfkuxujU9sxsHQwGYMCuiZs_Pobjp/s320/W.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5274410089148286482" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;font-size:180%;" ><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-style: italic;">W</span><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">OODCHESTER</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">C</span><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">HRONICLE</span></span></span><br /><br /></div><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">LOCAL SCHOOL PARENT PROTESTS AT SCARE TACTICS FROM 'THE GODFATHER'</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family: times new roman;">Local parent governor politics turned nasty today as feisty Dorothy Marshall, 40 (pictured with her son, George) slammed fellow contender, 30 year old builder, Dave Dooley, as "worse t</span><a style="font-family: times new roman;" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJb1rZU5bdRAqchM7WlzOTuany8dMQq8VCNEkGLny9uHlmQvEl5OCLuJLFFUJA4qgxcq4y-aPGGM6p7GhWCsVfpH4pNVUdb0AGbnslm38HF-uiDADsksmYpbl9cFUxeYH1RUbK/s1600-h/mum+and+george.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 87px; height: 128px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJb1rZU5bdRAqchM7WlzOTuany8dMQq8VCNEkGLny9uHlmQvEl5OCLuJLFFUJA4qgxcq4y-aPGGM6p7GhWCsVfpH4pNVUdb0AGbnslm38HF-uiDADsksmYpbl9cFUxeYH1RUbK/s320/mum+and+george.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5274405031435844866" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family: times new roman;" class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">han</span><span style="font-family: times new roman;"> The Godfather in that Mafia film".</span><br /><span style="font-family: times new roman;">'He's using bagfuls of</span></span><span style="font-style: italic; font-family: times new roman;font-size:130%;" > sweets</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family: times new roman;"> to bribe his way onto the school board!' she said. 'Then I was sent a threatening letter, warning me to stay away from the election! These are underhand, criminal and pathetic tactics and I have already made the police a</span><a style="font-family: times new roman;" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdip85faZ4lVTOtbSH3vKyhz64jrQThUEDfGi7Lz1swZar5DUWEkfSr6geN2P-EfHbNdy5aFTGdalM-FvMhTIUAn-Klas7irJc54O7kZCDm73Di6ZPiGJFqlE5fShpWI1rzKDu/s1600-h/godfather.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 87px; height: 125px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdip85faZ4lVTOtbSH3vKyhz64jrQThUEDfGi7Lz1swZar5DUWEkfSr6geN2P-EfHbNdy5aFTGdalM-FvMhTIUAn-Klas7irJc54O7kZCDm73Di6ZPiGJFqlE5fShpWI1rzKDu/s320/godfather.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5274406661471333426" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family: times new roman;">ware of what is happening. That man is a political vegetable.'</span><br /><span style="font-family: times new roman;">Mr Dooley commented, 'she's mad.'</span><br /><span style="font-family: times new roman;">There were reports of fighting in the playground today as children caught up in election frenzy exchanged blows. There were no serious casualties but acting head teacher, Mr commented, 'Our </span><span style="font-family: times new roman;" class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">OFSTED</span><span style="font-family: times new roman;"> report gave us an, </span></span><span style="font-style: italic; font-family: times new roman;font-size:130%;" >'excellent</span><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family: times new roman;">' for relationships between children, I just don't understand it.'</span><br /><span style="font-family: times new roman;">When asked about playground rivalry, Dorothy Marshall said that, 'I will not tolerate violence in any form on or off the playground and that certainly is one of the platforms of my school governor campaign; along with the reintroduction of locally sourced giant vegetables for school meals, extra </span><span style="font-family: times new roman;" class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">targetted</span><span style="font-family: times new roman;"> homework and a total ban on sweets and builders.'</span><br /><span style="font-family: times new roman;">When asked to clarify this last statement, Mrs Marshall said that she was not being elitist and that builders had every right to live normal lives just like the rest of us.</span><br /><span style="font-family: times new roman;">Mr Dooley commented, 'she's mad.'</span><br /><span style="font-family: times new roman;">'Events pertaining to the parent governor election are a school issue,' a police spokesman </span><span style="font-family: times new roman;" class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">sa</span><a style="font-family: times new roman;" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVfc0tNIRXIEj3m-gO2iOz4OwXy7ObgY1GViK5bcm5HbjsNxUi8BDisK0cDkSo0n7a38f98tGI0eoydERCJXIa15qV-kZhwEvWM1mCSYsm983lqyegJjlTzXttBdzR7wQGSdEf/s1600-h/happy+thoughts.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 124px; height: 124px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVfc0tNIRXIEj3m-gO2iOz4OwXy7ObgY1GViK5bcm5HbjsNxUi8BDisK0cDkSo0n7a38f98tGI0eoydERCJXIa15qV-kZhwEvWM1mCSYsm983lqyegJjlTzXttBdzR7wQGSdEf/s320/happy+thoughts.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5274409051997681762" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family: times new roman;">id 'although Mrs Marshall's arrest for </span><span style="font-family: times new roman;" class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">disorderley</span><span style="font-family: times new roman;"> conduct is a matter of public record.' Mrs Marshall refused to respond to the police statement.</span><br /><span style="font-family: times new roman;">This newspaper has learnt of a surprise last minute entry to the school governor race. Mr </span><span style="font-family: times new roman;" class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">Ranjit</span><span style="font-family: times new roman;"> Patel will be spreading a message of joy and peace and hoping to win votes with his message of yoga, sandals and happy thoughts.</span><br /><span style="font-family: times new roman;">Mrs Marshall said, 'whilst I agree with Mr Patel's philosophy, I cannot see how happy thoughts will get the dinner cooked although sandals might be a good idea in the summer.'</span><br /><span style="font-family: times new roman;">Mr Dooley said, 'they're both mad.'</span><br /></span>Wilfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15255247027469318384noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21018539.post-31364775150042018812008-11-16T10:07:00.010+00:002008-11-16T11:05:26.106+00:00DON'T. That's All. Just DON'T.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPMAwElSYf4BaRHjVIocTxsUIIF-2vBZEqcFaQD5iD-euSYoVzLjkkCK-xuvebiIT0axoMlIgm_SepNsfkZRi2VJu8T7DZ7AVcUJtJEJAP5FHZc4-gfouUIyoMXkuqrcZUnJbI/s1600-h/police+arrest.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 47px; height: 73px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPMAwElSYf4BaRHjVIocTxsUIIF-2vBZEqcFaQD5iD-euSYoVzLjkkCK-xuvebiIT0axoMlIgm_SepNsfkZRi2VJu8T7DZ7AVcUJtJEJAP5FHZc4-gfouUIyoMXkuqrcZUnJbI/s320/police+arrest.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5269207009397015298" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5hjh6jNDumJeCIt9mE_CdEbVW_E5m3c5eZAq1dz3BmiZpOfVjaXlINGhwDnuyMpyh9hJcFMQPOLbUtl1A3MR3Ie0zsa5d2NiODa_twSzO0OkA0baoazu-iVch77wSiriucipS/s1600-h/ASBO.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 87px; height: 120px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5hjh6jNDumJeCIt9mE_CdEbVW_E5m3c5eZAq1dz3BmiZpOfVjaXlINGhwDnuyMpyh9hJcFMQPOLbUtl1A3MR3Ie0zsa5d2NiODa_twSzO0OkA0baoazu-iVch77wSiriucipS/s320/ASBO.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5269205841990853746" border="0" /></a>After we got home from the police station and a <span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">BIG WARNING</span> that next time Mum would be slapped with an ASBO before she could say <span style="font-style: italic;">"Parent Governor</span>", I find this on the hall floor.<br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;">Dear Mrs Marshall<br /><br /></span><span style="font-family:courier new;">My people have heard that you intend to stand for Parent Governor at Nupton Valance Primary. </span> <span style="font-family:courier new;">DON'T. That's all. Just DON'T.</span> <span style="font-family:courier new;"><br /></span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;">Yours Sincerely</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;">A Well Wisher</span><br /><br /><br />'"DON'T"!' Mum i<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRQ3sW1Yh-YFw0pGUuLH06qoXdHSN9u_iDCKOMoa-OaUO2WzkIjmw4jjoYKjUj0DaTONj6pxXKQzN9ivfBLOWPMCOxYNPwa7WkkdQJwI-NmOFD5c9FvIsopdC_yxpJ7IZbiDyL/s1600-h/Jeremy_Brett.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 258px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRQ3sW1Yh-YFw0pGUuLH06qoXdHSN9u_iDCKOMoa-OaUO2WzkIjmw4jjoYKjUj0DaTONj6pxXKQzN9ivfBLOWPMCOxYNPwa7WkkdQJwI-NmOFD5c9FvIsopdC_yxpJ7IZbiDyL/s320/Jeremy_Brett.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5269206204231466162" border="0" /></a>s screeching and her hair is flying about. 'That Dave Dooley can't stop me standing for School Governor!'<br />'I don't think it is Mr Dooley,' I say.<br />Recently, I have been watching elderly programmes on freeview. One of them is called '<span style="font-style: italic;">The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes</span>' and it is absolutely the best detective stuff without cars, I have seen. Sherlock has a sidekick called Dr Watson and even though he is a doctor, he is a bit stupid. Sherlock solves everything, uses disguises, jumps about a lot and even has an arch enemy called Professor Moriaty.<br />'Why not? Why not?' shouts Mum.<br />'Elementary,' I say and stroke my chin for good measure. 'Look at the spelling, it's all correct - isn't it?' I am mostly guessing at this one but Mum nods. 'And see the paper,' I hold it up to the rubbish energy saving half watt bulb. 'It's the really good printing paper from Tesco and ...' I wave it about for effect, ' ... it does not smell of aftershave.'<br />'What's going on?' Dad comes up from the cellar, holding a set of false teeth. 'Why're yo<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjefSjoVuItzBaS13NqD82JgaLRh7kc1OA7ChNIbO3i7NvW089DxuEtLYMJd60bGOYQNq3e7G_XBaKhOcPIYs75pHfkDkaQjAgOtfj1ItyFhYKpD3KuqFeIcL_M6wGfUjxHPWSc/s1600-h/false+teeth.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 127px; height: 80px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjefSjoVuItzBaS13NqD82JgaLRh7kc1OA7ChNIbO3i7NvW089DxuEtLYMJd60bGOYQNq3e7G_XBaKhOcPIYs75pHfkDkaQjAgOtfj1ItyFhYKpD3KuqFeIcL_M6wGfUjxHPWSc/s320/false+teeth.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5269209058592955506" border="0" /></a>u so late, Dorothy? You know Wilfred has school tomorrow.'<br />Mum turns to me and flares red like a warning light. I ignore her because she has to learn.<br />'Mum attacked Mr Dooley with a bin bag of sweets and got arrested.' I shrug. 'It was fun.'<br />'I see,' says Dad and he is mashing the gnashers together in his hand. 'Bed, Wilfred. I have to discuss something with your mother.'<br />Hmmm, I do not have to be Sherlock Holmes to guess what that is about.Wilfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15255247027469318384noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21018539.post-65915068039901325412008-11-01T15:39:00.009+00:002008-11-01T19:08:27.967+00:00The Zombie is Toast<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhd7ECGrbR_5kEjZ7j6OF_QaC0yWwRllxOIJq0DFXTaSZxe2nkwhJ7H0ZSLSPYxx46b4EjjuThN4gUgC-RrMqgZbQ83BQtp3KF3PsbHkShR26yveYXbuP7Po24SdEuu0zDqFSTb/s1600-h/pumpkin.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 124px; height: 93px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhd7ECGrbR_5kEjZ7j6OF_QaC0yWwRllxOIJq0DFXTaSZxe2nkwhJ7H0ZSLSPYxx46b4EjjuThN4gUgC-RrMqgZbQ83BQtp3KF3PsbHkShR26yveYXbuP7Po24SdEuu0zDqFSTb/s320/pumpkin.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5263765071287797506" border="0" /></a>I am told I cannot go trick or treating because it's against, The Rules. We are eating spaghetti bolognese made almost entirely of giant marrow, apart from the spaghetti. It is horrible.<br />'You might upset some old people,' says Mum because she is very keen on old people.<br />'Granpa Jack is old and he's taking a group of old people out to get treats.'<br />'He is not!' shouts Dad.<br />'He is,' I say 'and he says they're all going to be demons and wear red pants and tights.' Mum gives a little scream. 'AND, Dexter is going with his dad, Mr Dooley and <span style="font-style: italic;">he's</span> dressing up as a gut eating zombie,' I inform them as I suck up one piece of spaghetti at a time. Mum gives Dad a look across the ta<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZQIZGR0HZkqArf2N0hL6XFJxEjRuYi5Vhne7CWmZw9Hneaw961n_U_zt7Cz7yzvo4B4bdGzHqrNezuY65HLlRS2pn35aq2cmQViONJ9qyPCc5yF-B9lU-WhXZdHfyyM5aYyCn/s1600-h/rtten+teeth.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 113px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZQIZGR0HZkqArf2N0hL6XFJxEjRuYi5Vhne7CWmZw9Hneaw961n_U_zt7Cz7yzvo4B4bdGzHqrNezuY65HLlRS2pn35aq2cmQViONJ9qyPCc5yF-B9lU-WhXZdHfyyM5aYyCn/s320/rtten+teeth.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5263767977806826594" border="0" /></a>ble. 'It's true' I say. I can sense them wobbling now under the power of my fantastic arguing. '<span style="font-style: italic;">Furthermore, </span>(their eyes widen with wonderment at my cleverness, I am on a roll) Mr Dooley is going to collect as many sweets as he can so that he can donate them to the school tuck shop.' Wait for it.<br />'There isn't a school tuck shop,' says Dad. 'For the very good reason that all your teeth will drop out.'<br />I pause and savour the moment. Here we go. 'There will be when he becomes school governor.'<br /><br /><br />So, I am<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgU-S5P_2ZvM_Q3GsPHKqgpPptd_WZjzqDlz9lFHSHDzBLUyc8Rntf67PePVHq7JMhH2M1l7wQ2n9iiQRip1aLqvpRR8DsDYtbEuUDLasZaZUM_d5SSE8Ubvn1P5S8Eu2n9uxyB/s1600-h/dracula.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 106px; height: 106px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgU-S5P_2ZvM_Q3GsPHKqgpPptd_WZjzqDlz9lFHSHDzBLUyc8Rntf67PePVHq7JMhH2M1l7wQ2n9iiQRip1aLqvpRR8DsDYtbEuUDLasZaZUM_d5SSE8Ubvn1P5S8Eu2n9uxyB/s320/dracula.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5263765324939312290" border="0" /></a> Count Wilfredo complete with excellent 75p fangs, black cloak from Tesco and a giant bucket for snatching all the sweets from under the nose of the Dooley zombie. Mum is a ghost. She found one of my old sheets and cut eyeholes out. She didn't notice the spiderman on the back and I haven't told her.<br />Outside, Mum strides down the High St. She is walking as though she is wearing a business suit.<br />'We'll just call on people we know,' she says, 'then we won't alarm the elderly. Tuck shop indeed!' she adds. She is a very brisk ghost, flapping her arms and twirling round all the time and is already surprising all the baby children out with their responsible adults. 'Sorry didn't see you there!' she tries to pick up one of the children she has knocked over.<br />'Monster!' says its parent which is not technically correct.<br />'Better keep an eye out for Mr Dooley,' Mum says, rushing away from the scene of the crime, ' - don't want him hogging all the sweets!' She is trying to sound jolly about sweets now which is a dead giveaway. She wants his blood.<br />I spot Dexter who is bandaged up to his eyeballs in loo roll.<br />'How many sweets have you got then?' I yell.<br />'Not quite enough for a school tuck shop,' shouts Dexter.<br />'Nearly there, though!' yells the impressive zombie next to him. 'Bet even your mad parents will vote for me when they hear about how much free stuff I've got for the school.'<br />He holds up a bulging bin bag.<br />'Er, maybe,' I say. Mum sidles up behind me.<br />'Bet your Mum will spit bricks when she hears about this, eh?' he yells.<br />'Er ...' I er.<br />'Better than her DISGUSTING organic veg crud she makes for all those poor old people ...'<br />'Um ...'<br />'They feed it to their cats! And even the cats won't eat it! Ha!'<br />'Well ...'<br />'Aghhhhhhhh!' The spiderman ghost flies past me.<br />The zombie is toast.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyU2J6dldj5-Fi1y-UsqVRe0M4bnPE6oTkUGrstYhUEHgJa9jksxUxdynKX2NyD1PLBOYByRFg_ji7030Uqk0VVgdAoRvRV14Q_MFYmX5HxQ6i5elqd1GArXJChlHR827A0FUe/s1600-h/toast.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 130px; height: 98px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyU2J6dldj5-Fi1y-UsqVRe0M4bnPE6oTkUGrstYhUEHgJa9jksxUxdynKX2NyD1PLBOYByRFg_ji7030Uqk0VVgdAoRvRV14Q_MFYmX5HxQ6i5elqd1GArXJChlHR827A0FUe/s320/toast.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5263765671945623714" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />'Wilfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15255247027469318384noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21018539.post-66525983137351363382008-10-26T08:49:00.008+00:002008-10-26T09:44:16.552+00:00Anyway, I Knew This Would Happen<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwHURpFO_EuggqdYXHVV3JBkk6EvMpn9_3psP844B__SPb2SWNSbKmpCCkfKB_61H_4NM18dnIyfU3aA8RRfZI2qVTERHtgQrmbgIxBBkK-v8wfiOzFCgl-NO9Vto3RwzZgSdm/s1600-h/fight.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 120px; height: 111px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwHURpFO_EuggqdYXHVV3JBkk6EvMpn9_3psP844B__SPb2SWNSbKmpCCkfKB_61H_4NM18dnIyfU3aA8RRfZI2qVTERHtgQrmbgIxBBkK-v8wfiOzFCgl-NO9Vto3RwzZgSdm/s320/fight.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5261391660995925922" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Anyway, I knew it would happen. Mum told me to look out for a </span><span style="font-family:arial;">surprise at school. Before I could even speak to him, Dexter started fighting me. No surprise there - but he then tried to stuff a piece of paper down my throat while shouting out words we normally only whisper. When I had wiped all the spit of the paper, I found this ...</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;" ><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);"><br />D</span><span style="color: rgb(51, 204, 0);">O</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);">R</span><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 0);">O</span><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">T</span><span style="color: rgb(51, 255, 51);">H</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);">Y</span> MARSHALL - Governor in Waiting!</span> <span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;" ><br /><br />Hell</span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;" >o there. As a mother of one son in Year 5, I would love to be a governor at Napton Valance Primary School. I obviously have a very keen interest in the education of my child and would like to</span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;" > further his career by being involved in running the school. </span> <span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;" ><br /><br />I a</span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdkdG3-L8kK7cKrJlJO1kFWnqnNESfinoQ92-BIOH6rvowwNfDWcd8Lw7ceAASsOEOnem1rgrSfBBlKkQKA3MlrkhXMKB7EeGEmjSfb_KKaOLofYByCWW7-1DsXm25hyphenhyphenf5D2zR/s1600-h/league+of+cats.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 103px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdkdG3-L8kK7cKrJlJO1kFWnqnNESfinoQ92-BIOH6rvowwNfDWcd8Lw7ceAASsOEOnem1rgrSfBBlKkQKA3MlrkhXMKB7EeGEmjSfb_KKaOLofYByCWW7-1DsXm25hyphenhyphenf5D2zR/s320/league+of+cats.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5261392656042692610" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;" >m</span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;" > in</span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;" >volved in a great deal of charity work for the old folk and often cook up huge q</span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;" >u</span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;" >antities of my special organic vegetable medley (thanks to Oliver-James' parents for their regular giant veg donations!), so that the old folk can eat something healthy every so </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;" >often. The old folk I visit often have cats which they LOVE - in fact I often find the old folk feed my organic vegetable medley to their cats because they love them so much. Touch</span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;" >ed by this display of feline affection, I not only doubled the quantity of medley I gave out, I also established, </span><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:verdana;" >'The League of Cats</span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;" >' charity shop in town. You must visit!<br /></span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;" >So, I still have a little spare time - even after helping my husband sort out his Rare and Unusual Teeth Collection - to assist the head teacher in sorting things out. I'm good at that. Just ask Wilfred!</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">Warmest Wishes</span> <span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);"><br />D</span><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 0);">o</span><span style="color: rgb(51, 255, 51);">r</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);">o</span><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">t</span><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 0);">h</span><span style="color: rgb(51, 204, 0);">y</span></span> <span style="font-family: verdana;">(me in fancy dress!)</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPCxHsIcmmdsjaOEJE8BGUBEfgEnHwqEawYhnmos_Rs_YIqe7SoKpUldqVLu4yt1jqGl8FvwQU2PFIN0yzAuaHnhiwx69ZIYWkyqrwN2GK_DvhQNoL3hvlT4iW9LmeUue-JnTU/s1600-h/Dorothy+Marshall.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 81px; height: 120px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPCxHsIcmmdsjaOEJE8BGUBEfgEnHwqEawYhnmos_Rs_YIqe7SoKpUldqVLu4yt1jqGl8FvwQU2PFIN0yzAuaHnhiwx69ZIYWkyqrwN2GK_DvhQNoL3hvlT4iW9LmeUue-JnTU/s320/Dorothy+Marshall.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5261394422464953762" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;" >P.S. Alot of the old folk live in bungalows built by Mr Dooley. They often have bad chests and damp related illnesses.</span>Wilfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15255247027469318384noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21018539.post-41866344908328310552008-10-19T14:28:00.008+01:002008-10-19T20:15:04.461+01:00We Must Unite!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuQroNHjXc46pmHm5Eb0eoSTFx4ZeW9ngvZT7_wEsVT0Ef-7DtXzpekjmQS67AgPH2KampUrw9HjU7FTQD3xJ1N3PgZBOIpM7qnL3LiXxJ1LVT6BeefCmi2fX4aDHqZEpI0xcD/s1600-h/franz+ferdianand.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuQroNHjXc46pmHm5Eb0eoSTFx4ZeW9ngvZT7_wEsVT0Ef-7DtXzpekjmQS67AgPH2KampUrw9HjU7FTQD3xJ1N3PgZBOIpM7qnL3LiXxJ1LVT6BeefCmi2fX4aDHqZEpI0xcD/s320/franz+ferdianand.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5258943923668725250" border="0" /></a>Mrs Trundle is not at school for a few days. According to us she has gone off to assassinate the second son of a Lithuanian duke. Mr Bagnall says she's not feeling herself. Ha.<br /><br />Anyway, Mr Bagnall has seized power. His first act is to tell everyone that parents can become governors at the school - Mrs Trundle never allowed this. I think this is a stupid idea:<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">a</span>. because when she comes back she will be thirsting for blood and parent-governors will be top of her hitlist.<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">b</span>. because there will be actual fighting between parents about who is going to be a governor<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">c</span>. parents will make sure we are all <span style="font-style: italic;">working</span><br /><br />I get together with a load of others in the playground for an important meeting:<br /><br />'My parent<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgV-syGQJKTr0kWQeoVRnd_F2WON6vJud3oO9nL9halrn12RmELqcmUiqj2zYdupufyaNgKYt4BRlr6BByr3wHYmUj6r-vGGrud_CpL6Q0AMdgzWjuULHDFGs9WiIUR0HCukm6V/s1600-h/FF+doctors.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgV-syGQJKTr0kWQeoVRnd_F2WON6vJud3oO9nL9halrn12RmELqcmUiqj2zYdupufyaNgKYt4BRlr6BByr3wHYmUj6r-vGGrud_CpL6Q0AMdgzWjuULHDFGs9WiIUR0HCukm6V/s320/FF+doctors.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5258944213112531586" border="0" /></a>s will be at school tomorrow, <span style="font-style: italic;">demanding</span> to be school governors when they hear about this,' says Itisham. 'They really, really like to interfere.' This is a BIG worry. Iti's parents are both doctors. 'They will be looking out for diseases every two minutes and giving us jabs all over the place.' Iti shakes his head. 'We'll have to wash a lot.'<br />I shudder. 'Well, mine cannot get enough committees and groups to be head of in this tiny town. It is not enough for Mum that she bothers all the old people with her chatting and organic vegetable medley. Oh no, she'll be here forcing her organic vegetable medley on us and making us talk to girls about feelings.'<br />'D'you think she'll ban rugby?' asks Tyler and he fiddles with his illegal mini rugby ball. 'That would be bad.'<br />'My father was mayor in Poland!' shouts Polish Jacob, he likes to shout in english - he says everyone shouts at him in english. 'He will insist on being President of the governors!'<br />'There are only going to be two governors, Jake,' I say.<br />'That is enough for my father!' says Jake and he smacks one fist into his palm. 'He will bring in cabbage and beetroot soup and break dancing lessons!' Jake loves break dancing and he throws himelf onto his back and waggles his legs in the air. 'It is better than rugby!'<br />Tyler narrows his eyes. Dexter <span style="font-style: italic;">runs</span> up, so something must be up.<br />'You'll never guess!' he says, then is distracted by Polish Jacob. 'You look like a beetle, Jake, is that what you are? A beetle?'<br />'Dexter!' I push him a bit until he falls over.<br />'I am break dancing!' shouts Jake.<br />'What?' I ask Dexter.<br />'What?' he replies, picking himself up. 'Oh yeah,' he pulls a piece of paper out of his pocket. 'My dad's going to head governor - here have a leaflet.'<br /><br /><span style="font-size:180%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Dave Dooley</span></span> <span style="font-style: italic;">I am 37 with one son, married for too long! Ha ha!!!</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">Joking aside,</span><span style="font-style: italic;"> </span><span style="font-style: italic;">I </span><span style="font-style: italic;">am</span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWOdc6ISgztA3BhO646l-hyQXPDVajY6TvJm8nInsEdGiCKJ6kWvbGJ2AcdI6zlGh9bUmS7k3vPZt6T-AVGQm6bBEIZe_NNMjieUavfcjLusCqs_LsUxhRiecxg1VE8Hp1xZXm/s1600-h/FF+bungalow.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWOdc6ISgztA3BhO646l-hyQXPDVajY6TvJm8nInsEdGiCKJ6kWvbGJ2AcdI6zlGh9bUmS7k3vPZt6T-AVGQm6bBEIZe_NNMjieUavfcjLusCqs_LsUxhRiecxg1VE8Hp1xZXm/s320/FF+bungalow.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5258944513209670450" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;"> a Director of the county's leading specialist bungalow building provider:</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">DAVE DOOLEY</span><span style="font-style: italic;"> - SPECIALIST IN BUGALOW BUILDING</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">I am excellent at building bungalows and being in charge, </span><span style="font-style: italic;">so I believe I will be perfect as chief governor. My hobbies include bunglalo</span><span style="font-style: italic;">w building, shouting and spending time with my family. </span><br /><br />VOTE FOR ME!<br /><br />'This is full of spelling errors,' points out Iti.<br />Dexter shrugs. 'Who cares, my dad'll ban spelling when he's chief governor.'<br />Everyone starts looking at everyone else.<br />'We must unite,' I say, 'not fight!' Then, 'for a change,' I add. Some hope.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdtvlhtmFO6yTYwis-o7SMafbQxGSGeECILv-4O71g6Mcqso0ch629Zflz8AZmzVnNOVaJ_AgR5dQl8FZKnA1bE18C-t6s44PJ_WBpRC559JZg7lSO58lpeLzhLa7_IKpk2MY-/s1600-h/FF+fight.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdtvlhtmFO6yTYwis-o7SMafbQxGSGeECILv-4O71g6Mcqso0ch629Zflz8AZmzVnNOVaJ_AgR5dQl8FZKnA1bE18C-t6s44PJ_WBpRC559JZg7lSO58lpeLzhLa7_IKpk2MY-/s320/FF+fight.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5258944890989849938" border="0" /></a>Wilfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15255247027469318384noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21018539.post-10648712909043794682008-10-13T18:41:00.006+01:002008-10-14T13:43:40.948+01:00Victory is Ours<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhg7Z0jCB5IdcKpXdqcKkDmQsF1-B1VeEDKqEArUthSKHY3m0fYsnLZ0wxuXNQo101zuLEw5ngjwvmzv39fESfNDU1haI69QIdoJ-K8oFX2uH7i6o9-zPD92mPS39r1XJj19bHE/s1600-h/harvest+fest+ginat+potato.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhg7Z0jCB5IdcKpXdqcKkDmQsF1-B1VeEDKqEArUthSKHY3m0fYsnLZ0wxuXNQo101zuLEw5ngjwvmzv39fESfNDU1haI69QIdoJ-K8oFX2uH7i6o9-zPD92mPS39r1XJj19bHE/s320/harvest+fest+ginat+potato.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5256986045519457666" border="0" /></a>So, a bunch of us run into the dining hall.<br />'Harvest festival display!' I shout, 'follow me!' Dexter and me leap over the neat rows of tins-of-food-that-you-never-eat-unless-you-are-absolutely-starving.<br />'Get behind the giant vegetables!' I yell. We are quite lucky because, Oliver-James's mum and dad are very keen on growing big veg. They <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5LatObXu3u3A7L87sf-Eact6W5sQrVL08Vdu4rc8IwZ3lzPrq-qs2p05gCRGnkTKCcqbJY2Gke1C0ycrbewzn4tfeOb1PjOabBjYpSh3tGjQTTa-95FkAIsvQDcchvpCbWvc1/s1600-h/harvest+fest+giant+cabbage.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5LatObXu3u3A7L87sf-Eact6W5sQrVL08Vdu4rc8IwZ3lzPrq-qs2p05gCRGnkTKCcqbJY2Gke1C0ycrbewzn4tfeOb1PjOabBjYpSh3tGjQTTa-95FkAIsvQDcchvpCbWvc1/s320/harvest+fest+giant+cabbage.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5256986253463214066" border="0" /></a>brought in the biggest potato in the world on their roof rack. It took 10 juniors to lift it down.<br />I peep round the side of a monster cabbage.<br />Mr Bagnall strolls in. I think he is smiling but the moustache makes it difficult to tell. 'Well children, I have locked the outside door - you're safe.<br />Somewhere inside the school, some baby children scream.<br />'I don't think a locked door will stop Mrs Trundle,' I point out. 'She keeps a laser cutter in the caretaker's shed.'<br />'She's in!' shouts Tyler. Mrs Trundle charges into the hall. He arms himself with an oversized carrot.<br />'This is brilliant,' says Dexter, picking up a tin. 'It's like all those battles in Lord of the Rings or world wa<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7_VDHnHYBAPccxNMbRGdsai-U3oeV0JS2xg6UZTHbxCXGzZ5zWN8SEz9gSnnUoco4x4Lnij1ecmDu8wTgHyF3-iBuA2bidivCCLE8np5fPTvQJIYU5188KBcNS3ZVQKQDBM7o/s1600-h/harvest+fest+battle.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7_VDHnHYBAPccxNMbRGdsai-U3oeV0JS2xg6UZTHbxCXGzZ5zWN8SEz9gSnnUoco4x4Lnij1ecmDu8wTgHyF3-iBuA2bidivCCLE8np5fPTvQJIYU5188KBcNS3ZVQKQDBM7o/s320/harvest+fest+battle.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5256988030016427506" border="0" /></a>r 1 or something.'<br />Mrs Trundle does some impressive Stick of Doom manouvres as she thunders towards us.<br />'Come out!' she screams. 'Those giant vegetables won't save you now!'<br />Mr Bagnall and his moustache leaps in front of her and we cheer. 'Remember your training! The children are your friends!!'<br />'HA!' she cries, then 'HA!' again.<br />'Don't make me say it,' says Mr Bagnall, 'just give me the stick and I won't say it...'<br />I look at Dexter and he looks at me.<br />'HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!'<br />'PUT THE STICK DOWN ... <span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">PRUNELLA</span></span>!' shouts Mr Bagnall.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0ys3mdlfG4PrCFGAaMnH4QU8NWB3Hjy-j-X_7w1fmZl9s1UJBrVYAtBKMiOcUxN0A9wky0XOYP6o9WIh3pPVtsWMK4_83SCgfgHWK2AfmAlRKYH8vNGGwfZv1of-o-ExMyteI/s1600-h/harv+fest+vicotry.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0ys3mdlfG4PrCFGAaMnH4QU8NWB3Hjy-j-X_7w1fmZl9s1UJBrVYAtBKMiOcUxN0A9wky0XOYP6o9WIh3pPVtsWMK4_83SCgfgHWK2AfmAlRKYH8vNGGwfZv1of-o-ExMyteI/s320/harv+fest+vicotry.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5256988407302456690" border="0" /></a><br />It is like the pause button has gone on until Dexter stands up.<br />'Prunella!' he says, 'is that her name?'<br />Everybody starts mouthing the word, 'Prunella.' I think it must be like when you know the real name of a demon or a wicked fairy and just by saying it, it takes away their power.<br />'PRUNELLA!!!' we all shout at her. '<span style="font-size:130%;">PRUNELLA</span>! <span style="font-size:180%;">PRUNELLA</span>!'<br />She drops the stick and runs from the hall. Victory is ours.Wilfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15255247027469318384noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21018539.post-39015418778888462562008-10-05T16:10:00.018+01:002008-10-05T16:45:45.541+01:00Fascinating Invention No. 15 - The Parachute<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJX9U3AitTm7UnR4Y8O_F3qpBkOiRIDnzKJDqK7XjxJrNi4SEy6tTnnyw6XE0a048QQ8P9Z6C384_a6c1A34gzGl5GnOqjAXF4bIJkrjzcpt7hi6DoelfZjVNbNh0CZLhO5hyphenhyphen-/s1600-h/parachutepainting2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJX9U3AitTm7UnR4Y8O_F3qpBkOiRIDnzKJDqK7XjxJrNi4SEy6tTnnyw6XE0a048QQ8P9Z6C384_a6c1A34gzGl5GnOqjAXF4bIJkrjzcpt7hi6DoelfZjVNbNh0CZLhO5hyphenhyphen-/s320/parachutepainting2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5253690173717414130" border="0" /></a><br /><style type="text/css"> <!-- @page { size: 21cm 29.7cm; margin: 2cm } P { margin-bottom: 0.21cm } --> </style> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; line-height: 200%;" lang="en-GB"><span style="color:#000000;"><span style="font-family:Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><b>Fascinating Invention No. 13 - The Parachut</b></span></span></span><span style="color:#000000;"><span style="font-family:Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><b>e</b></span></span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; line-height: 200%;" lang="en-GB"><span style="color:#000000;"><span style="font-family:Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><i>The first parachute was drawn by </i></span></span></span><span style="color:#000000;"><span style="font-family:Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><i>Leonardo </i></span></span></span><span style="color:#000000;"><span style="font-family:Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><i>da Vinci in about 1500 but he never got round to making one. That was left to Faust Vrancic, who in 1617 actually ju</i></span></span></span><span style="color:#000000;"><span style="font-family:Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><i>mped from a Venice </i></span></span></span><span style="color:#000000;"><span style="font-family:Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><i>tower holding onto a parachute. At least he did not use a dog for his experiment as this is what Jean Pierre Blanchard did in 1785. </i></span></span></span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; line-height: 200%;" lang="en-GB"><span style="color:#000000;"><span style="font-family:Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><i> He took his dog u</i></span></span></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqIhrIg_2iy65QHpdhQf8r5tkibTuY8nNpCwOiSdjEfnHFXhIBWpU7HD3TW_lMNSXi6jvB3KPRnqobkDmuQzCykPn6Ska13ktSMi-bq-FJZeSEc0rxb5SxVIt_gOoQXszxa357/s1600-h/parahcute+Blanchard.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqIhrIg_2iy65QHpdhQf8r5tkibTuY8nNpCwOiSdjEfnHFXhIBWpU7HD3TW_lMNSXi6jvB3KPRnqobkDmuQzCykPn6Ska13ktSMi-bq-FJZeSEc0rxb5SxVIt_gOoQXszxa357/s320/parahcute+Blanchard.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5253692212226806658" border="0" /></a><span style="color:#000000;"><span style="font-family:Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><i>p in the air for a balloon ride, probably jollying him along with lots of talk a</i></span></span></span><span style="color:#000000;"><span style="font-family:Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><i>bout the view and what</i></span></span></span><span style="color:#000000;"><span style="font-family:Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><i>ever and then…’LOOK </i></span></span></span><span style="color:#000000;"><span style="font-family:Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><i>FIFI – A CAT! FETCH!’ and he chucks him over t</i></span></span></span><span style="color:#000000;"><span style="font-family:Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><i>he side attached to a not very good parachute. Maybe</i></span></span></span><span style="color:#000000;"><span style="font-family:Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><i> the d</i></span></span></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLg4xoajGXfSvTScRIs3F1MY8ciSfafha-myBdsQLiSRmQJi7SrSsXWm7QgrP2dvBL1l8YRZBBLIycV7k4ddDzChyphenhyphenTtotQNAC5vp777_xO25r1zBunZDFi_3m5NKohjkOLvHDm/s1600-h/parachute+poodle.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLg4xoajGXfSvTScRIs3F1MY8ciSfafha-myBdsQLiSRmQJi7SrSsXWm7QgrP2dvBL1l8YRZBBLIycV7k4ddDzChyphenhyphenTtotQNAC5vp777_xO25r1zBunZDFi_3m5NKohjkOLvHDm/s320/parachute+poodle.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5253692477821606162" border="0" /></a><span style="color:#000000;"><span style="font-family:Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><i>og did not die because Blanchard did use a parachute again to escape from his balloon when it suddenly exploded (I think Fifi was getting </i></span></span></span><span style="color:#000000;"><span style="font-family:Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><i>her own back). </i></span></span></span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; line-height: 200%;"><span style="color:#000000;"><span style="font-family:Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span lang="en-GB"><i> Anyway parachutes got better because of dogs and mad Frenchmen and soon it stopped looking like a rigid pyramid and became a silky umbrella. Lots of people starting jumping from towers </i></span></span></span></span><span style="color:#000000;"><span style="font-family:Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span lang="en-GB"><i>and then aeroplanes, </i></span></span></span></span><span style="color:#000000;"><span style="font-family:Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span lang="en-GB"><i><b>just for fun</b></i></span></span></span></span><span style="color:#000000;"><span style="font-family:Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span lang="en-GB"><i>. The big problem was the wobbling canopy. </i></span></span></span></span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; line-height: 200%;" lang="en-GB"><span style="color:#000000;"><span style="font-family:Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><i> Lots of people tried to stop the wobble, including Sir George Cayley, who thought tha</i></span></span></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7lMyh7HDgWXhlBW1_Pxq6_B6df96qExWDAdXlqDttKQPqasJz-bVGwgx7M62K3BuVZfd7flpJy7weCP2ZwXuJCFf83VlRqdsksNYPgSWLJd27uwlWSEp_MeN6UKFE-mT8iYue/s1600-h/parachute+cocking.gif"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7lMyh7HDgWXhlBW1_Pxq6_B6df96qExWDAdXlqDttKQPqasJz-bVGwgx7M62K3BuVZfd7flpJy7weCP2ZwXuJCFf83VlRqdsksNYPgSWLJd27uwlWSEp_MeN6UKFE-mT8iYue/s320/parachute+cocking.gif" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5253692832003907794" border="0" /></a><span style="color:#000000;"><span style="font-family:Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><i>t a cone-shaped parachute would do the trick; until Robert Cocking became the first person to die in a cone-shape</i></span></span></span><span style="color:#000000;"><span style="font-family:Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><i>d parachute accident in 1837.</i></span></span></span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; line-height: 200%;" lang="en-GB"><span style="color:#000000;"><span style="font-family:Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><i>Of course, it was someone in the army, Captain Thomas Baldwin in 1887, who said they should cut a hole in the to</i></span></span></span><span style="color:#000000;"><span style="font-family:Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><i>p to stop the wobble and this worked. Parachutes became VERY BIG in the wars and now you get loads of different types and loads of different types of people use them – but not dogs. </i></span></span></span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; line-height: 200%;" lang="en-GB"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhY-AgLlT5sFg8edWe9KFLqRKhY_yqpuYJzJy6A4lblTdQ048T034n681c6X8vSSyoX9JpifzSEh-RQMDIOEAmMZx8DgmJhZaDABR5F6dmJtwF7wE3vM1Y0tllGPLx7amqQ4wAo/s1600-h/parachute+war.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhY-AgLlT5sFg8edWe9KFLqRKhY_yqpuYJzJy6A4lblTdQ048T034n681c6X8vSSyoX9JpifzSEh-RQMDIOEAmMZx8DgmJhZaDABR5F6dmJtwF7wE3vM1Y0tllGPLx7amqQ4wAo/s320/parachute+war.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5253694865209577058" border="0" /></a></p><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">wheeeeee</span></span><br /></div>Wilfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15255247027469318384noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21018539.post-13688521593825058952008-09-27T12:41:00.014+01:002008-09-28T15:56:21.507+01:00Run For Your Lives<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpi8z7cgrp8ueOxYIZivugjWEc_AVUHQMdp95FL58JMBd1afZ54VdyBfp0wFMLTWrZumD5tB6KenIgI2OsKX5PU2n0GrXpqRB8raWHCChi7aOhbSuJ7z9E9gGMCAa3RQinf9M-/s1600-h/gerbil+photo.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpi8z7cgrp8ueOxYIZivugjWEc_AVUHQMdp95FL58JMBd1afZ54VdyBfp0wFMLTWrZumD5tB6KenIgI2OsKX5PU2n0GrXpqRB8raWHCChi7aOhbSuJ7z9E9gGMCAa3RQinf9M-/s320/gerbil+photo.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5251085714262284434" border="0" /></a>Itisham has a gerbil called, Lewis. He likes to put him in a green plastic ball and watch him charging all over the kitchen floor. He runs like mad in a straight line until he hits the broom/wall/cooker etc and then tumbles backwards to go the other way until he hits the broom/wall/cooker etc. Lewis reminds me of Dexter playing British Bulldog. He goes in a straight line until he hits a person/wall/the ground and then changes direction until he hits a person/wall/the ground. He is quite rubbish at playing this game because he gets over excited.<br /><br />- he forgets where his home is<br />- he forgets who is on his team<br />- he forgets he is in school with teachers and dinner ladies all over the place<br /><br />So, there he is forgetting everything. He has knocked over 5 baby children, got a whole load of girls to be on his team - most of them run round <span style="font-style: italic;">screaming</span>, except for Alice Taylor who tries to be a nurse - and caught NOBODY, even though it is his turn to be bulldog.<br />THEN<br />Alice <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJ3qyJIAZIIYxbmPohfR6OZ3UAXHi-UcdEGzaOQYSuegLR9dvsEVAZq5XyTH02WUZ77rcLYJ5Hw1V0c3HfcZKXdm1ynkI6afMVsYWQNrqFmc9RM1uHG-CwR_Z3j3Rog3RO6x2M/s1600-h/nurse.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJ3qyJIAZIIYxbmPohfR6OZ3UAXHi-UcdEGzaOQYSuegLR9dvsEVAZq5XyTH02WUZ77rcLYJ5Hw1V0c3HfcZKXdm1ynkI6afMVsYWQNrqFmc9RM1uHG-CwR_Z3j3Rog3RO6x2M/s320/nurse.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5251085403425437474" border="0" /></a>Taylor has me in an armlock. 'Just pretend you have a broken leg,' she orders, 'I'll mend you.'<br />'I've got you!' cries Dexter and he wraps his arms around me.<br />'Get off me, you idiot! It doesn't count when you're injured!'<br />'Yes it does!' yells Dexter, 'and you're my first catch! <span style="font-size:130%;">British bulldog, 1,2,3!</span>'<br />'Shut up! It's stripey jumpers!'<br />'Oh, what a delightful game!' trills Mrs Trundle. She has appeared out of nowhere, her good eye twitches. 'Stripey Jumpers! I've never heard of that!'<br />Dexter jumps away from me and knocks into Polish Jacob.<br />'Yes,' says Polish Jacob, who knows nothing about British Bulldog and is even worse at it than Dexter, 'and you get to use the stick of power - here,' he says and thrusts a ginormous tree branch into her hands. I manage to stop myself slapping my hands to my head in utter despair. We are pushing her too far.<br />She trembles and I know she is trying not to use the stick of power on the nearest chil<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwFNZdKBh88Xg689WfbD708nFQuKTUywQxajgTA6pL7AEzcdtorBL7dTgrKJ9uaC6IglOLfmLTorhs07cuoHc4UAVjrn5tgNFEli52dogU-O8HCrDGCbEpuq0eV0yo3kq_6sdI/s1600-h/staff+of+power.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwFNZdKBh88Xg689WfbD708nFQuKTUywQxajgTA6pL7AEzcdtorBL7dTgrKJ9uaC6IglOLfmLTorhs07cuoHc4UAVjrn5tgNFEli52dogU-O8HCrDGCbEpuq0eV0yo3kq_6sdI/s320/staff+of+power.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5251085920269302930" border="0" /></a>d.<br />'Back away slowly,' I hiss at Alice. 'She's going to lose it.'<br />'I can't stand it!' she roars. She runs at me with the stick. I scream a tiny bit and head for base.<br />'Don' do it! Mrs Trundle, <span style="font-style: italic;">resist</span> - you know you can!' It is Mr Bagnall. His big moustache is wobbling as he shouts and runs to come between me and the Trundle. 'Don't give in to your violent urges!'<br />Too late. She is laughing and wielding the stick like a Gandalf.<br />Mr Bagnall blows his whistle. 'Get in,' he screams, '<span style="font-style: italic;">run for your lives</span>!'Wilfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15255247027469318384noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21018539.post-26400014841398771002008-09-15T11:03:00.007+01:002008-09-21T11:50:50.855+01:00British Bulldog<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJNGKOBxm8b2knztnpkCJ609RcGQnVIp7YaqBR805hirGSLVyJTAxWP-Cqndd1gkcNdLyBSEeUaAeN_aaJVyCC8q9KH5b1yE0JyW3cHI-7aTSloILEmGEevxFEQbD78VnCplM7/s1600-h/british+bulldog.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJNGKOBxm8b2knztnpkCJ609RcGQnVIp7YaqBR805hirGSLVyJTAxWP-Cqndd1gkcNdLyBSEeUaAeN_aaJVyCC8q9KH5b1yE0JyW3cHI-7aTSloILEmGEevxFEQbD78VnCplM7/s320/british+bulldog.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5248414863399019458" border="0" /></a>I cannot begin to talk about George and his stick-eating ways just at the moment - it is too painful.<br /><br />So, here is what is happening at school. Mrs Trundle has come back from her course, <span style="font-style: italic;">'A Way In - really communicating with your class'</span> and is bothering everybody with excessive smiling and 'how are yous?' She seems to have given up the idea of <span style="font-style: italic;">a.</span> being a part time assassin <span style="font-style: italic;">b</span>. using school money to go on educating foreign trips<span style="font-style: italic;"> c</span>. being generally horrible.<br />It's all pretty disturbing.<br /><br />I decide it is time to test this new niceness.<br />'Let's play British Bulldog,' I say to Dexter. We are mooching about in the playground, kicking the tiny stones we can scuff up from the tarmac.<br />'It's banned,' says Dexter.<br />I shrug.<br />'I see your point - maybe if we just have a couple of boys each,' says Dexter.<br />'Well, just don't tell everybody,' I say, 'you know what happened last time.'<br />He looks blank for a moment and then the light goes on. 'We got banned. I'll be Captain.'<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPhuwv2A3ctsP7PmHfs814WPTtkQEgMSVCXca4rPPY9OpXDwK6Ifr-a5Edqyws0ecKdxK3m9KuN9yV6VnhI7WeEOfmWIpaFUyIwTbaM6yvWsl6zL0EGUS_Cw1Uy_J_HfkuIR3U/s1600-h/bulldog.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPhuwv2A3ctsP7PmHfs814WPTtkQEgMSVCXca4rPPY9OpXDwK6Ifr-a5Edqyws0ecKdxK3m9KuN9yV6VnhI7WeEOfmWIpaFUyIwTbaM6yvWsl6zL0EGUS_Cw1Uy_J_HfkuIR3U/s320/bulldog.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5248423967719204914" border="0" /></a><br />'Me too,' I say, 'I did think of it.' I run off to find players, I want to get all the good ones before Dexter does.<br />I find Tyler and Itisham and Polish Jacob. Tyler does rugby and knows about charging about. We choose our home. It is the brown bit of grass underneath the office window. Dexter has the netball semi circle. Ha. We all come together in the middle. Polish Jacob, who is Polish and has no idea what is going on, agrees to be the bulldog.<br />'Just remember,' I whisper, 'no shouting, no really big hitting and don't say British Bulldog out loud.'<br />'But <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6SsGyctp9ELPUifaDmirXpOv0mBfJ_l_EMjw_dgYOW6CAQ0x9nNEvvtuFQsThdpLXFQnJsX1tVqvBdGZChNulZqfn4E964ioJ2nVIyi7frcQwcWCLF7Tk9SDBwTLLLabYyBCC/s1600-h/rugby+shirt.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6SsGyctp9ELPUifaDmirXpOv0mBfJ_l_EMjw_dgYOW6CAQ0x9nNEvvtuFQsThdpLXFQnJsX1tVqvBdGZChNulZqfn4E964ioJ2nVIyi7frcQwcWCLF7Tk9SDBwTLLLabYyBCC/s320/rugby+shirt.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5248425039012522914" border="0" /></a>we still have to say "British Bulldog 1, 2, 3!" when we catch someone,' says Dexter.<br />'Call it '<span style="font-style: italic;">Stripey Jumpers</span>', says Tyler, who knows a thing or two about stripey jumpers.<br />'Agreed!' I say, 'Let's play!'<br />And that's when it starts going slightly wrong.Wilfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15255247027469318384noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21018539.post-53237673269457389232008-09-12T13:29:00.015+01:002008-09-14T10:45:36.049+01:00George's Black Hole<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxchyphenhyphen4rpTbzo69OU35iXMZgip1FOjNX2Rk_kVoRPCkZKTIG2zny0gceeXf9_79uxjhY5hGZf-6qR7PB_DD1z9zkybynv2d1Sar0zm9dkzPqO7zqhxIaShdOhLb9VJisV_rY7rc/s1600-h/baby.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxchyphenhyphen4rpTbzo69OU35iXMZgip1FOjNX2Rk_kVoRPCkZKTIG2zny0gceeXf9_79uxjhY5hGZf-6qR7PB_DD1z9zkybynv2d1Sar0zm9dkzPqO7zqhxIaShdOhLb9VJisV_rY7rc/s320/baby.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5245613413227811346" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">By Wednesday teatime we were all still alive and not sucked into a black hole where we are crushed into nothingness or forced to play parallel universe football. It is all a bit on the disappointing side really.</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">In actual fact our house is a bit like being in a parallel universe right now because my baby brother, George is on the move.</span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" > He is like a black hole. He sucks us all into his horrible baby world and now we cannot escape and soon he will crush us into nothingness</span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" >.</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:arial;" ><br />First off</span><span style="font-family:arial;">. He goes </span><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;font-family:arial;" >everywhere</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> and we all have to follow him because of the terrible, terrible danger lurking at the edge of every cupboard door, table corner and under every cushion.</span><a style="font-family: arial;" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEQeXeIETraw94PK0XWmr6eMwCMb6DU7iZdBojwSRzxBzRGtNx4zgwXks2GDH9T-KI0LKrSCA764HyZzL9JkzIuN-dSrCuiA_WQ_AJiwPcL_CJXf61Yc45d-pd-l6KjNTX2dX4/s1600-h/cushions.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEQeXeIETraw94PK0XWmr6eMwCMb6DU7iZdBojwSRzxBzRGtNx4zgwXks2GDH9T-KI0LKrSCA764HyZzL9JkzIuN-dSrCuiA_WQ_AJiwPcL_CJXf61Yc45d-pd-l6KjNTX2dX4/s320/cushions.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5245619556268985330" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" > Look out! Run from the fluffy cushions!Aaaaaghhh!<br /><br /></span><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Second off</span>. I<span style="font-family:arial;">t is </span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" >The Rule</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> that George is not a</span></span></span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" ><span style="font-size:100%;">llowed to put small things into his mouth because:<span style="font-style: italic;"><br />a</span>. he will </span></span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" ><span style="font-size:100%;">swallow it, be poisoned and die<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">b</span>. he will try and swallow it, choke and die <span style="font-style: italic;"><br />c</span>. he will not swallow it, stick it up his nose and die</span></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" >.<br /></span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" ><span style="font-size:100%;">But nobody has told George <span style="font-size:130%;">The Rule </span>because a very bad thing happened.<br /></span></span><br /><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" ><span style="font-size:100%;">Mum plopped George into my room, without asking me. I know this because when I go into my room he is there, wobbling a bit as he stands up, hanging onto the stick insect table.</span></span><br /><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" ><span style="font-size:100%;">'Oi!' I say, 'what you doing?'<br />He does not answer and my insides go into a kind of </span></span><a style="font-family: arial;" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6NbNZzUAvfF8Tftw-43eXPPzUOvHmaUBpY96I2hdB8mMaqIrrnURTw9OF0d705WPfIyc1fm_N-PtK4Y7UC0bFQRvfu3k6a7C0CmQudNk45WA_HnGLQwi-zuMszGUrtY0zBzEj/s1600-h/victorian+melodrama.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6NbNZzUAvfF8Tftw-43eXPPzUOvHmaUBpY96I2hdB8mMaqIrrnURTw9OF0d705WPfIyc1fm_N-PtK4Y7UC0bFQRvfu3k6a7C0CmQudNk45WA_HnGLQwi-zuMszGUrtY0zBzEj/s320/victorian+melodrama.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5245808194898151330" border="0" /></a><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" ><span style="font-size:100%;">freefall and I <span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">know </span>something bad has occurred.<span style="font-style: italic;"> Crunch. </span>The it comes to me and suddenly </span></span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" ><span style="font-size:100%;">my room is a million miles wide as I race across to save him.<br />Too late.<br />Sticky, my best stick insect is prodding out of George. </span></span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" ><span style="font-size:100%;">His front legs are waving a bit like he is saying goodbye before he disappears into the black hole that is George's mouth.<br /><br /></span></span><a style="font-family: arial;" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzpdCNPbceHgcIbygSMQ96Hp4C3jb-jPepTowpuBucX9ClKyfilhuHXMzfscSSqGn7XpQ7ASFc0zzdIk5UyAb_olGNe2zrvGluXuxPIAjseTyMbPNgor-k8FVYZmG03_ri2hGO/s1600-h/Sticky.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzpdCNPbceHgcIbygSMQ96Hp4C3jb-jPepTowpuBucX9ClKyfilhuHXMzfscSSqGn7XpQ7ASFc0zzdIk5UyAb_olGNe2zrvGluXuxPIAjseTyMbPNgor-k8FVYZmG03_ri2hGO/s320/Sticky.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5245808541606053682" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:arial;" >Sticky, before the bad end</span><span style="font-family:arial;">.</span><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></span>Wilfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15255247027469318384noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21018539.post-40765677507003688472008-09-07T10:32:00.008+01:002008-09-07T20:49:26.784+01:00This Is Not The Right Experiment For World Domination<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8aOHwHshOZrcj0gaHuAbW90dsCtZ_M4V9D0wJjvUpKFEWZGzejUq7Z-6i6RgR-E1jPbaN9OACuJ8sPrM_UYjS6qcQp5LAk1Q7XSNkTafZIzCT2iND4BKtkhKQerBxtBKXWWjx/s1600-h/large+hadron+collider.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8aOHwHshOZrcj0gaHuAbW90dsCtZ_M4V9D0wJjvUpKFEWZGzejUq7Z-6i6RgR-E1jPbaN9OACuJ8sPrM_UYjS6qcQp5LAk1Q7XSNkTafZIzCT2iND4BKtkhKQerBxtBKXWWjx/s320/large+hadron+collider.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5243226956187362738" border="0" /></a> <span style="font-size:100%;">Dexter called round and said we have to go and play football NOW because the end of the world is on Wednesday.</span><div id="article">'You're talking gibberish rubbish again, Dexter,' I tell him.<br />I have decided to be extra clear about what I mean with Dexter - he is a bit thick at times. He kicks at his football and knocks over a pot plant.<br />'Well if you're not going to play then I'll have to ask Tyler because this is pretty much the last chance before we all get sucked into a black hole. Would've thought you'd heard about it, he says. 'My dad says they should close the school but I bet Mrs Trundle keeps it open and we'll all be doing a spelling test as we <span style="font-style: italic;">die</span>.' He pulls an imaginary cord round his neck and lolls his tongue out.<br />'Yeah I know that,' I say, even though I <span style="font-size:130%;">did not</span> because nobody can even hear the radio or TV withmy baby brother, George bellowing all the time; so I am spending more and more time with my earmuffs on talking to the sticks in my room. Even now, George is cranking himself up for a big yell upstairs. 'Yeah, should be good.'<br />'I wish we did science like that,' says Dexter, pushing the pieces of broken pot onto the gravel. 'A giant colliding thing would be ace.'<br />'A what?'<br />Dad pops his head up from the cellar stairs. He is polishing Lord Baden Powell's molar which he got for a present from Grandpa Jack.<br />'Large Hadron Collider,' he says to me, 'Thought you'd know about that.'<br />'I did,' I lie suavely or at least I soon will ...<br /><br />So here it is:<br /><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">THE LARGE HADRON COLLIDER</span><br /><br />is no<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjm-BZgw8wvrkiQYa9-q6OJKheEFiGcS3CLD4W1dqy5l_on6amDHaiwjz3SqtEwyFtGgFtimSi2JbGxZJupRLiwC-chmj0r_X5wSzgPt8wBYNW7m4Z8MWuBW-31yQ4YlbgHxsr5/s1600-h/LCH+insect.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjm-BZgw8wvrkiQYa9-q6OJKheEFiGcS3CLD4W1dqy5l_on6amDHaiwjz3SqtEwyFtGgFtimSi2JbGxZJupRLiwC-chmj0r_X5wSzgPt8wBYNW7m4Z8MWuBW-31yQ4YlbgHxsr5/s320/LCH+insect.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5243229824152852562" border="0" /></a>t small even though it is dealing with the most <span style="font-size:78%;">tiny</span> piece of the universe - a part of an atom called a hadron. The LHC is 26 miles of underground between France and Switzerland and has taken 10 years to build by 20 different countries.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTxBgLA-0MUul9mKPfjN8blL0eXt6614S39TbO5tr7yeMk_Y2EpXXUg4g-MR4iQNzeKmBNeK-zkk8U2BN7WQUJb9dpSvVWO265PwmJndbfJvwq2v42mDTlTaWMI3qQA4fDdCtk/s1600-h/LCH+mad+scientist.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTxBgLA-0MUul9mKPfjN8blL0eXt6614S39TbO5tr7yeMk_Y2EpXXUg4g-MR4iQNzeKmBNeK-zkk8U2BN7WQUJb9dpSvVWO265PwmJndbfJvwq2v42mDTlTaWMI3qQA4fDdCtk/s320/LCH+mad+scientist.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5243230106184199858" border="0" /></a>It looks like a world domination experiment done by someone called, <span style="font-family: courier new;">Dr Mad</span>. When one of<span style="font-family: courier new;"> Dr Mad's</span> evil assistants presses the <span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">big red button </span>all the hadrons will hurl themselves from both ends of the tunnel, <span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">colliding</span>. This will make the teeniest explosion ever in the tiniest amount of time. <span style="font-family: courier new;">Dr Mad </span>thinks he will have unleashed human eating monsters from a parallel universe which only he can stop -<span style="font-weight: bold;"> </span><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:180%;" >for a price</span>.<br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:180%;"><br />HAHAHAHAHAHAH</span><span style="font-size:180%;">AHAHAHHAHAHAHAH!</span></div><br />BUT in actual fact when he has stopped laughing he will find out what happened a trillionth of a second after the universe was created 13.7 billion years ago OR<br /><br />We will all be sucked into a black hole. It could go either way.<br /><br />The main things to know will be:<br /><br />a. about new and interesting particles in the universe<br />b. dark matter - what it is and why it matters<br />c. this is not the right experiment for world domination<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbzzSr4uHxbd_dHQIO6FcNlrTqcyCPNWPT6NcVTLc3M0gWrzUpMirfa0i-eB6HprqS94TgriXxybZYy3ybLbTf-luauBtR4EIvGZ-3HDNQuF67A0ocrGPfQozWDuxm6o8IiDi7sA/s1600-h/space12.gif"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbzzSr4uHxbd_dHQIO6FcNlrTqcyCPNWPT6NcVTLc3M0gWrzUpMirfa0i-eB6HprqS94TgriXxybZYy3ybLbTf-luauBtR4EIvGZ-3HDNQuF67A0ocrGPfQozWDuxm6o8IiDi7sA/s320/space12.gif" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5243365810689985666" border="0" /></a>I better go and play football, to be on the safe side.<br /><br /><br /><div class="body"><p><br /></p><br /></div> </div>Wilfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15255247027469318384noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21018539.post-46189826567944919902008-08-31T10:13:00.009+01:002008-08-31T16:29:29.885+01:00I Suggest You Try Tesco<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqIPcuo12C3ZJdpvhkghxQsZ0JK5VM4cta9MKD7vFVdKp5qsVoGSqwPYBLGW7eOlsxKjrEIfjkFEJxAKqofOLv9vVVah6GboZTNam9m9tVFvBq_KcwafwyZP8dMc0u5VQ-WrbI/s1600-h/school+trousers.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqIPcuo12C3ZJdpvhkghxQsZ0JK5VM4cta9MKD7vFVdKp5qsVoGSqwPYBLGW7eOlsxKjrEIfjkFEJxAKqofOLv9vVVah6GboZTNam9m9tVFvBq_KcwafwyZP8dMc0u5VQ-WrbI/s320/school+trousers.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5240701939096012530" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZ8kL1uqDl3qwBbxWMwuBLDodYPIsPLIvdoGoIO0qEHefJCzM1SzaRdebuloKGFD8t4hh6KsyoD2LikY9wo3_RrDsH7BixBzt22MdhSKSkAVPm_crNa050i6QEBRVOy-fP8TRG/s1600-h/backpack.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZ8kL1uqDl3qwBbxWMwuBLDodYPIsPLIvdoGoIO0qEHefJCzM1SzaRdebuloKGFD8t4hh6KsyoD2LikY9wo3_RrDsH7BixBzt22MdhSKSkAVPm_crNa050i6QEBRVOy-fP8TRG/s200/backpack.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5240701686315214290" border="0" /></a>I am definitely back from Stroud because we are in town and Dad makes me try on 4 million pairs of black school shoes - <span style="font-style: italic;">all the same</span>. Finally he chooses the perfect pair and it turns out you get a free school bag as well.<br />'Excellent,' says Dad, 'now we don't have to buy you a school bag.'<br />I poke at the bag. 'Think again Father of Mine,' I say. 'I would rather use Mum's <span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">handbag</span>.'<br />'Nothing wrong with it!' snaps Dad. 'Now, what's next on the list...ah, new PE kit.'<br />Most of my friends get their stuff from Tesco but Dad says that if we do that then local shops will go out of business. So I am forced to be seen dead in Mr Elliott's School Emporium.<br />'Ah, this takes me back,' says Dad as he pushes open the tinkly door. 'Good old Eggy, I used to come h<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCnxHrKzXJb1Tw1BrOr9YiJIIG6f8WFs1yzn2_u9hF8Vs87WH26bdMWlIH_kHHwvq5JGkJPQC4okewYDL52bksvXhwIwgU81dUJKtlfj25JFkMr41X79Uwp657HMAp-rfpZZu9/s1600-h/school+shop.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCnxHrKzXJb1Tw1BrOr9YiJIIG6f8WFs1yzn2_u9hF8Vs87WH26bdMWlIH_kHHwvq5JGkJPQC4okewYDL52bksvXhwIwgU81dUJKtlfj25JFkMr41X79Uwp657HMAp-rfpZZu9/s320/school+shop.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5240702114504355042" border="0" /></a>ere to buy my school uniform!'<br />I shake my head at this horrifying news. 'I'm sorry, Dad - I didn't know.'<br />Mr Egghead appears from behind a rack of grey shirts. He has bottlebottom lenses in his face sized glasses and not one single hair on his head. It gleams in the spotlight.<br />'School? Size? Sex?' he asks.<br />'Nupton Valance Primary. Nine year old boy,' snaps back Dad.<br />Mr Egghead laughs a low sniggery laugh. 'I see.' Hahahahahahaha.<br />I look up at Dad in a questioning sort of way.<br />Dad coughs. 'We just need a PE kit.'<br />Mr Egghead stops laughing. He bends low and whips out a tape measure. He flings it around like one of those ribbon gymnasts in the Olympics. Then straightens up.<br />'We're all out of PE kit in his <span style="font-weight: bold;">particular</span> size,' he says. 'In any size,' he adds with a sneer.<br />'But I can see them over there,' I say, pointing to the shelf marked, PE KIT.<br />'He's sharp,' says Mr Egghead, <span style="font-style: italic;">'too</span> sharp - now excuse me I have trousers to rearrange!'<br />'But,' says Dad. 'But...'<br />'I suggest you try Tesco. Good day!' And he laughs again. Hahahahahahahahahaha<br />'I don't remember him laughing quite so much when I was young,' says Dad as we are chucked out of the door.<br />'I don't think anybody<span style="font-style: italic;"> normal</span> laughs quite that much, Dad,' I reply. I am struck with a brilliant idea. 'I left my school bag in his shop - shall we go back and get it?'<br />'NO!' says Dad, 'you can choose your own - from Tesco.'<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEia00D_-zYolSsUNn4BKeE9RD_WFnggeY-r9j_UejHMe3FBfx4neqvTFPbTAHOouzOXpVfboP9WDnbVcL3RdjiO-d5DP7PPXFQsetwcQbtIOems2MxkmzJMQVVorOn0gsZmP7To/s1600-h/backpack+Voltaic.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEia00D_-zYolSsUNn4BKeE9RD_WFnggeY-r9j_UejHMe3FBfx4neqvTFPbTAHOouzOXpVfboP9WDnbVcL3RdjiO-d5DP7PPXFQsetwcQbtIOems2MxkmzJMQVVorOn0gsZmP7To/s320/backpack+Voltaic.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5240702613551304370" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">The Voltaic backpack uses photo cells to charge itself up and then you can keep going with your mobile, I-pod and night vision goggles as long as you like. You cannot get it from Tesco.</span>Wilfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15255247027469318384noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21018539.post-43725308150287929102008-08-03T14:34:00.003+01:002008-08-03T14:40:41.493+01:00Going to Stroud<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg177LWPT4y77sGyIIEBTn6RSFBy3lCcRySKBZloyT6DHfgNj6RaDJmoshMabbBxOSNINy1O4ZK2YAEiyfc9qHAGJjs7IQp269IoUvIxD3Aabx311dOEm4m0LZvr95osaBv8-Jz/s1600-h/travel.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg177LWPT4y77sGyIIEBTn6RSFBy3lCcRySKBZloyT6DHfgNj6RaDJmoshMabbBxOSNINy1O4ZK2YAEiyfc9qHAGJjs7IQp269IoUvIxD3Aabx311dOEm4m0LZvr95osaBv8-Jz/s320/travel.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5230285432147982242" border="0" /></a>We are travelling to Stroud for our holiday and will not be seen for about two weeks. See below.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdJ630N5ham27j3Tc_LLZe7qU7gx44GcwgOIthlrKW9YZ8B3rCz-Lq1vZ2hO0GexdUSY6mioeQCI-4p5h_VyqZ5AUZh1INTE3nBepEozs_j17zJaj-cDXOBPI38vwJ57JMP7mH/s1600-h/Stroud.gif"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdJ630N5ham27j3Tc_LLZe7qU7gx44GcwgOIthlrKW9YZ8B3rCz-Lq1vZ2hO0GexdUSY6mioeQCI-4p5h_VyqZ5AUZh1INTE3nBepEozs_j17zJaj-cDXOBPI38vwJ57JMP7mH/s320/Stroud.gif" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5230284996190807282" border="0" /></a>Bye.Wilfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15255247027469318384noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21018539.post-45442414208702589662008-07-27T22:09:00.014+01:002008-07-28T17:11:24.246+01:00Fantastic Invention No. 15 - The Lawnmower<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizl8P3ipKJbaFk4dFfoazSUpLyU22qBnvLP8jaiA5QuhNVSUToLjKuxOju47b9GXRlMBKbh3BxXGeIRXwh3oblhX164PVqB21bHyJDrag_XjCx53_kcBY0oLSHNdGLlpHxI4tn/s1600-h/cheering+crowd.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizl8P3ipKJbaFk4dFfoazSUpLyU22qBnvLP8jaiA5QuhNVSUToLjKuxOju47b9GXRlMBKbh3BxXGeIRXwh3oblhX164PVqB21bHyJDrag_XjCx53_kcBY0oLSHNdGLlpHxI4tn/s320/cheering+crowd.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5227977008838095778" border="0" /></a>It turns out that Weird Bloke was not actually dead which was lucky for him. He had to go to hospital with a traumatic head injury and would most likely never be the same again which was also lucky. Peter the Viking turned out to be the Museum child handler and <span style="font-style: italic;">not</span> a Viking at all. He went <span style="font-style: italic;">out of his tree</span> about the centurion wig mix up and threatened us from <span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:130%;" >ever going back to his museum again</span>. We all cheered. So, things were not a total failure AND we did not have to finish the worksheets.<br /><br />To soothe myself I am showing you one of the greatest unknown inventors, Edwin Beard Budding and his fantastic invention, the lawnmower. Be amazed.<br /><br /><style type="text/css"> <!-- @page { size: 21cm 29.7cm; margin: 2cm } P { margin-bottom: 0.21cm } --> </style> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; line-height: 200%;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:Arial,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span lang="en-GB"><i><b>E</b></i></span></span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:Arial,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span lang="en-GB"><i><b>dwin Beard Budding</b></i></span></span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:Arial,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span lang="en-GB"><i> (1745 – 1846) lived in Strou</i></span></span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:Arial,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span lang="en-GB"><i>d in Gloucestershire. He was an engineer and got the ide</i></span></span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:Arial,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span lang="en-GB"><i>a fo</i></span></span></span></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQ8jIaEfKjbfxuvSy49ysZ30HHF-Vsk1AFWHJTsonMOi6wbwUWbDogxEgJ3yMXKuQ8LClKQA3Z8X923K13evBU5aTkgtgC6zQPsayz0xS2XCjzEIqbwIjEwvb2AK9G8jGkPoVm/s1600-h/lawnmower.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQ8jIaEfKjbfxuvSy49ysZ30HHF-Vsk1AFWHJTsonMOi6wbwUWbDogxEgJ3yMXKuQ8LClKQA3Z8X923K13evBU5aTkgtgC6zQPsayz0xS2XCjzEIqbwIjEwvb2AK9G8jGkPoVm/s320/lawnmower.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5227978403841151602" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:Arial,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span lang="en-GB"><i>r a </i></span></span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:Arial,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span lang="en-GB"><i><b>lawnmower </b></i></span></span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:Arial,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span lang="en-GB"><i>from seeing a cloth trimming machine in the local mill. Maybe he had a terrible </i></span></span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:Arial,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span lang="en-GB"><i>grass cutting trauma when he was a child; perhaps he was forced into grass-cutting labour at a very </i></span></span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:Arial,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span lang="en-GB"><i>young age. Whatever the reason he looked at some blades set in a cylinder in a factory and it made him somehow ponder about their grass-cutting possibilities and then the lawnmow</i></span></span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:Arial,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span lang="en-GB"><i>er was born. He said, </i></span></span></span></span>"country gentlemen may find in using my machine themselves an amusing, useful and healthy exercise."<span style="font-family:arial;"> </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:arial;" >Dad does not find the lawnmower amusing at all and actually has alot of arguments with it. I tell him he does not appreciate what it was like before.</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; line-height: 200%;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:Arial,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span lang="en-GB"><i>I</i></span></span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:Arial,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span lang="en-GB"><i>n 1830,</i></span></span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:Arial,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span lang="en-GB"><i><b> Edwin Beard Budding</b></i></span></span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:Arial,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span lang="en-GB"><i> invented the </i></span></span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:Arial,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span lang="en-GB"><i><b>lawnmower</b></i></span></span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:Arial,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span lang="en-GB"><i>. It is almost impossible to understand how long it took to cut the grass before that d</i></span></span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:Arial,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span lang="en-GB"><i>ate. If you had a big house, you had an army</i></span></span></span></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSOpZ2hCDJ3-lJGfSK5dhbcJ5ezStRGs1G_hH6uC0ixcJn8lJEA6ku0sV45YJZdcNsCUKcqcJ39hW6IYbsoycPTGb4JfwFzsBeZa_PS7OPpDjHGSPAzuhiwgEZbcmSPlt_PJ4b/s1600-h/sheep+on+lawn.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSOpZ2hCDJ3-lJGfSK5dhbcJ5ezStRGs1G_hH6uC0ixcJn8lJEA6ku0sV45YJZdcNsCUKcqcJ39hW6IYbsoycPTGb4JfwFzsBeZa_PS7OPpDjHGSPAzuhiwgEZbcmSPlt_PJ4b/s320/sheep+on+lawn.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5227980559235995858" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:Arial,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span lang="en-GB"><i> of gardeners with scythes to keep your lawns trim; that or you brought in a flock of hungry sh</i></span></span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:Arial,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span lang="en-GB"><i>e</i></span></span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:Arial,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span lang="en-GB"><i>ep to do the job. The she</i></span></span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:Arial,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span lang="en-GB"><i>ep could be a problem if you wanted to sunbath or go out for a romantic stroll or play a game of </i></span></span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:Arial,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span lang="en-GB"><i>lawn tennis – they and their poo just got in the way. If you lived in a small house then you might not even bother with grass; being outside for fun was only for the people in big house</i></span></span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:Arial,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span lang="en-GB"><i>s. If you did not want to starve, you would probably fill your garden with vegetables because grass was not going to fill you up.<br /></i></span></span></span></span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; line-height: 200%;"><br /></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; line-height: 200%;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:Arial,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span lang="en-GB"><a href="http://www.lawnmowerworld.co.uk/">Lawnmower world</a> will tell you all you want to know abo</span></span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-family:Arial,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span lang="en-GB">ut other sorts of lawnmowers. In the meantime here is a picture of a man with a beard using an actual Budding lawnmower. Look how happy he is. We are going on holiday to Stroud very soon and Grandpa Jack will be left in charge of the house and the stick insects. Hmmm.<br /></span></span></span></span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; line-height: 200%;" lang="en-GB"><br /></p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjk2cmLV6cU8pKf4cUhG8YBZNqQOx9frviZAIH6hwkcd4_JgpKiPMhcVxmPOGTTsLVaKD7HfODYDSqcTqrrHDJ1Q8NLmafGp4PL1Hsy1aw5L1BkO07gxu7mlNttVQ-PQXfWskQF/s1600-h/Edwin_Budding_Mower_-_BLM_Curator.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjk2cmLV6cU8pKf4cUhG8YBZNqQOx9frviZAIH6hwkcd4_JgpKiPMhcVxmPOGTTsLVaKD7HfODYDSqcTqrrHDJ1Q8NLmafGp4PL1Hsy1aw5L1BkO07gxu7mlNttVQ-PQXfWskQF/s320/Edwin_Budding_Mower_-_BLM_Curator.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5227815420596321698" border="0" /></a>Wilfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15255247027469318384noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21018539.post-41416993312125175582008-07-19T14:31:00.004+01:002008-07-20T13:42:21.691+01:00Who Has Been Interfering With The Roman Centurion?<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinxzRKa6oCq28lwr8BCQMJC87T4SLGmHxcheRrXVof6dOM3H0BWQv6wx-uR_SZpYkDUFu2Rk4sgv4FbVqoCVI_Dhb2vTLEk7p4skZPCBV2d13U5iwexsNZOcYQwersBIb8sg6X/s1600-h/nettle+rash+saint+benedict.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinxzRKa6oCq28lwr8BCQMJC87T4SLGmHxcheRrXVof6dOM3H0BWQv6wx-uR_SZpYkDUFu2Rk4sgv4FbVqoCVI_Dhb2vTLEk7p4skZPCBV2d13U5iwexsNZOcYQwersBIb8sg6X/s320/nettle+rash+saint+benedict.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5225061877133062562" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Saint Benedict was the saint of nettle rash. Not the sort of saint I want to be.</span><br /><br />We are in the<span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);"> blue</span> bit of The Museum and this is the Vikings. Weird Bloke is <span style="font-style: italic;">rushing </span>which <span style="font-style: italic;">is </span>weird because we cannot fill out our delightful worksheets properly. So, for example, one of the questions is:<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJCB7sx3ro55nip4AvBhyphenhyphenQmLrnJERIGt4BsKCVl8fBHOBXECjVclpDunZYDf_oRsDLAQbZPJqVZerbX37QWD8r1XJX0nOje8lINAs2KYxJUppJT4bF-Hkt1y170QO3kBswDYUn/s1600-h/do+not+touch.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJCB7sx3ro55nip4AvBhyphenhyphenQmLrnJERIGt4BsKCVl8fBHOBXECjVclpDunZYDf_oRsDLAQbZPJqVZerbX37QWD8r1XJX0nOje8lINAs2KYxJUppJT4bF-Hkt1y170QO3kBswDYUn/s320/do+not+touch.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5225061707780000962" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">If you were a Viking what name would you call yourself?<br />Draw a picture of you as a Viking plus your house and a diary for the past 5 ye</span><span style="font-style: italic;">ars (include your favourite food and pastimes!)</span><br /><br />Miranda is all set to spend the rest of the day on thinking about her name alone. When Weird Bloke shouts at her, she comes up with<span style="font-weight: bold;">, Jade</span>. Dexter and Me call ourselves, '<span style="font-weight: bold;">Peter'</span> and Isambard puts down <span style="font-weight: bold;">Sven</span> because that is his brother's name.<br />'Excellent!' screeches WB and tangles up his legs as he scrabbles to his feet.<br />We LOOK at each other.<br />'I'll just put this worksheet in the bin...' says Isambard and he sidles over to a Viking cauldron.<br />'Yes! Yes! Very good!' says WB and now he is getting his big hanky out and mopping actually underneath his wig. 'Bit hot in here.'<br />Then Dexter spots something interesting. 'Battle axes! Clubs! Look at this!' He touches the pointy end of a sword which is completely forbidden by law and WB screams.<br />'My head!' he cries. 'It's on fire!'<br />It is defintely scarlet and it is now covered in bumps.<br />'Poison ivy,' says Isambard.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBkH2fsrXC2uKPPX6fCtf8QfM5LeO0YjtNeQgJ-6rmXLtGuSu5jyMge4hyF7Eth85YlHRJmOrhU-s85DCYgvhyphenhyphenEOQzeMXZvWhpQYsYTepRgaU-wkh7kLDaFh722GNdKZZ6sbW2/s1600-h/nettles.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBkH2fsrXC2uKPPX6fCtf8QfM5LeO0YjtNeQgJ-6rmXLtGuSu5jyMge4hyF7Eth85YlHRJmOrhU-s85DCYgvhyphenhyphenEOQzeMXZvWhpQYsYTepRgaU-wkh7kLDaFh722GNdKZZ6sbW2/s320/nettles.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5225062158786800274" border="0" /></a><br />'Course not!' says Miranda. 'That is not a native species!' Her Dad is a world famous insect man and she thinks she is an expert on anything to do with nature and everything else in the world.<br />'Could be nettles,' I say. 'You need to spit on some dandelion leaves and rub it over you.'<br />'Get it off me!' he cries.<br />He is wrestling with the shoelace round his head. The wig is now half round his face like a mad beard. He runs and wrestles his way through the red bit which is the victorians. This is a shame because of all the fantastic inventions but now we are absolutely<span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-style: italic;"> flying</span></span> through history.<br /><br />By the time we run into the Romans <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 0);">(yellow)</span>, Mr Trundle's head is scarlet all over.<br />'I love the Romans!' says Miranda. She smooths out her worksheet.<br />'HELP!' squeaks WB.<br />This calls for action. I grab at a Roman centurion, find the short dagger and charge at WB's shoelace. 'Hold him down!'<br />'You've got a gladius,' says Miranda, lying across WB's legs and ticking a little box on the <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIELSXEO4tvJZaP29Y3QKbz_qRTfse3d-M-PcubgAXj8zafRujVLbWzCEhciepSiu2Cw83JrIIFcJY12BZ_Lp1OYCwVcqyAaszcLqGtXCnY4cNCnv1PiOD07sJW4IX8erWI06q/s1600-h/roman+centurion.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIELSXEO4tvJZaP29Y3QKbz_qRTfse3d-M-PcubgAXj8zafRujVLbWzCEhciepSiu2Cw83JrIIFcJY12BZ_Lp1OYCwVcqyAaszcLqGtXCnY4cNCnv1PiOD07sJW4IX8erWI06q/s320/roman+centurion.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5225064144094408162" border="0" /></a>worksheet. The others then jump on top of Mr Trundle and I saw through the shoelace and rip off the wig. The underneath is plastered with nettles. '<br />'Just as I thought - see!' I thrust the wig at Miranda.<br />'Humph!' She throws it away. It lands on the centurion' s helmet. 'A galea,' she murmurs. Tick.<br />'He's not moving,' says Dexter, climbing off his head. 'He's not breathing much either.'<br />'Just sleeping, I expect,' I say. 'He has been quite busy.'<br />'Could be d<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdGrLb_EkHZzDFrCaB4ESRJh-glhMj648ycwbzGiPN3LKyOjZDGVs-Y3TbLppgkkreXsNG2gnWIvjw-9RsVoQi5gJhuve7i55tgonA6rakcex1BH9bnAHbB0DJzAt3QIuNtkE4/s1600-h/roman+sandal.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdGrLb_EkHZzDFrCaB4ESRJh-glhMj648ycwbzGiPN3LKyOjZDGVs-Y3TbLppgkkreXsNG2gnWIvjw-9RsVoQi5gJhuve7i55tgonA6rakcex1BH9bnAHbB0DJzAt3QIuNtkE4/s320/roman+sandal.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5225064352517810978" border="0" /></a>ead,' suggests Isambard. He prods him quite hard with a nearby roman sandal. ('Caligae.' Tick.) 'He is dead.'<br />'Get his wig back on, then no-one will know anything,' says Dexter in a mysterious kind of way. He jumps up and pulls at the centurion's helmet. The helmet comes off together with WB's wig and another blonde wig belonging to the centurion. Dexter places the blonde wig on WB's head. 'There, much better.'<br />'You killed him,' says Miranda, pointing at me. 'I'm telling.'<br />'Then we'll have to kill you as well!' I jump up, dagger at the ready.<br />She glances at the information board next to the centurion. 'I'll just take that scutum and your pilum!' she says, grabbing a shield and a spear.<br />Dexter and Isambard crouch down. 'Wilf! Wilf! Wilf!' they yell.<br />Mirnanda and me circle the dead body of Mr Trundle. I snarl. Then Peter the viking appears.<br />'Oops,' I say.<br />'Wasn't me,' says Miranda.<br />Dexter has legged it. Isambard is studying the insides of a roman kitchen.<br />Peter strides over to WB stretched out on the roman pavement. He bends down a<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhterU1WDU5Cmll5umo7DWieaWLnf3Q1yGantpDhkyKeGzNFMCUasLm3eUw9aj96hU9de4Nhoe4TvxYRCg20HgrQgdKD-hz_V5zxgIRucwieHb1DPtDaAnLGVPUANzgau4nXxiW/s1600-h/gladiator+fight.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhterU1WDU5Cmll5umo7DWieaWLnf3Q1yGantpDhkyKeGzNFMCUasLm3eUw9aj96hU9de4Nhoe4TvxYRCg20HgrQgdKD-hz_V5zxgIRucwieHb1DPtDaAnLGVPUANzgau4nXxiW/s320/gladiator+fight.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5225064944061921874" border="0" /></a>nd stares at him. 'Who?' he roars. '<span style="font-style: italic;">Who</span> has been interfering with the Roman Centurion??!!'<br />And he plucks the wig from WB's dead head. <br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">Miranda has no chance against ME (see pic)</span>Wilfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15255247027469318384noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21018539.post-35159228063301025992008-07-12T11:31:00.014+01:002008-07-12T15:42:05.402+01:00Greetings Time Travellers!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLsMklSnqux1z6qANEzmW_fyVwrTIgJTPgk4sX3qfwrNrMG8Cs9kLc1X5u7Etc_v3vJxVEasClZkJigl6a655hqipwHRv2okDXHytlJ7m1_266P5zpW660VQDnQIHEWV3a0NUR/s1600-h/bad+wig.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLsMklSnqux1z6qANEzmW_fyVwrTIgJTPgk4sX3qfwrNrMG8Cs9kLc1X5u7Etc_v3vJxVEasClZkJigl6a655hqipwHRv2okDXHytlJ7m1_266P5zpW660VQDnQIHEWV3a0NUR/s320/bad+wig.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5222135597762940482" border="0" /></a>So, we are late getting to The Museum because Mr Trundle made the coach stop while he hunted down his wig. When he put it back on his head EVERYONE stared because it looked as though the top of his head had exploded. Mr Trundle just carried on. By the time the coach breaks down half a mile from where we should stop, Mr Trundle has used his shoelace to strap his wig down. He is a mad genius.<br /><br />Inside the museum, a tall man called Peter dressed in Viking uniform, says,<br />'<span style="font-style: italic;">Greetings, time travellers! You're late. We need to catch up with our schedule, so gathe</span><a style="font-style: italic;" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2ASAOwvKfc3AG7GIxN29Kius_fkayGvLsyjEPxmWrI6LgYgnyK7z-gUu3-U9U7UMrsJf8Nv4hUOcslKOeyXCHF6Xd-yaQ-w1JKeyr-0wcX99P4YO7DEIfMMA6kwdr53ENfpvQ/s1600-h/viking.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2ASAOwvKfc3AG7GIxN29Kius_fkayGvLsyjEPxmWrI6LgYgnyK7z-gUu3-U9U7UMrsJf8Nv4hUOcslKOeyXCHF6Xd-yaQ-w1JKeyr-0wcX99P4YO7DEIfMMA6kwdr53ENfpvQ/s320/viking.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5222135129677533410" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">r ye round!'</span><br />He makes a list of instructions which mostly involve <span style="font-style: italic;">not</span> touching anything and<span style="font-style: italic;"> not</span> eating near the exhibits or eating the exhibits and <span style="font-style: italic;">not</span> straying from our group leaders.<br />'<span style="font-style: italic;">Here are your worksheets. Enjoy!'</span> he says to finish.<br />I look at Dexter and he sticks a finger in his mouth and gags. Unfortunately, Mr Trundle hears him.<br />'<span style="font-style: italic;">You're not going to be sick as well are you?!?'</span> he asks in a voice which races towards the end of the sentence. 'Sick? Sick? I'll open a window!' I think he is traumatised.<br />'NO!' shouts Dexter. He rolls his eyes at me. 'I hope we don't get him as our group leader.'<br />'He is our group leader already,' I tell Dexter. 'That is why he started talking about fishing to you.'<br />Dexter's eyes go big with horror. 'Now I AM going to be sick.'<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcnMvttn__3PWE3tGySyW6tVMhva2bKsLf8lARlZygO5Qd5Nh8_yer7NDUNJzYOSVzIDBXKwi7Aq534iNAXKpWK2LKR65SQ5JF2TAcotecoPMzKgdigUaXy4EY88NKGiLsn-7v/s1600-h/worksheet.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcnMvttn__3PWE3tGySyW6tVMhva2bKsLf8lARlZygO5Qd5Nh8_yer7NDUNJzYOSVzIDBXKwi7Aq534iNAXKpWK2LKR65SQ5JF2TAcotecoPMzKgdigUaXy4EY88NKGiLsn-7v/s320/worksheet.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5222135905787457538" border="0" /></a>Isambard, Dexter, Miranda and Me trundle round after Mr Trundle. He has colour coded our way round the Romans, Vikings and Victorians but in the wrong order. I cannot hardly think about what happened next because it is not nice. I will write it down for next week. I <span style="font-style: italic;">can</span> tell you that Roman centurians and bad wigs do not mix. In the meantime here is a bit about a possible way of time travelling using black holes. I do not think Peter will have done this.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Time Travelling with Black Holes can be Dodgy</span><br /><br />When stars are so absolutely massive they run out of puff and collapse. This implosion creates <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJ-_o7HJnQhfQwqxK-6qF2j_cK3bSNWY77NB9emXp4h2GutJl0uiM0XrIwOwRgMT31RNI0abbynqfZRfpaaDhDEm80k_D5B-1VsCiBgIum6WcSM1V_gkPYLTx1_jHCX7jeKtqO/s1600-h/black+hole.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJ-_o7HJnQhfQwqxK-6qF2j_cK3bSNWY77NB9emXp4h2GutJl0uiM0XrIwOwRgMT31RNI0abbynqfZRfpaaDhDEm80k_D5B-1VsCiBgIum6WcSM1V_gkPYLTx1_jHCX7jeKtqO/s320/black+hole.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5222136134904050402" border="0" /></a><strong>black holes</strong>. They have really strong gravitational fields. It is so strong that nothing can escape. Not even Mr Trundle's wig. Around the black hole is an <strong>event horizon</strong>. If you even touch it you <span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">will be sucked in</span></span> <span style="font-size:180%;">never to escape</span>. <span style="font-size:130%;">Aghhh</span><span style="font-size:100%;">hhh</span><span style="font-size:85%;">hhh</span><span style="font-size:78%;">hhh</span>!<p>Here is an i<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8pKpTZFFXioofF-3odkXXna0I8BLp6W9X4G-T5craCJM07RUTiQF_0y63g8I4IqKM8PjOWJ9KBVYbG2SZ6ac9I1DwxNTy5nf7E6vgelTvThGo76hqVaSD5iwOd_p99IouzLMk/s1600-h/ice-cream+cone.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8pKpTZFFXioofF-3odkXXna0I8BLp6W9X4G-T5craCJM07RUTiQF_0y63g8I4IqKM8PjOWJ9KBVYbG2SZ6ac9I1DwxNTy5nf7E6vgelTvThGo76hqVaSD5iwOd_p99IouzLMk/s320/ice-cream+cone.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5222136527586467490" border="0" /></a>ce-cream cone. The top bit is the top of the black hole and the cone goes down to a <strong>singularity</strong>. Here, everything goes mad. If you travel down this ice cream cone,<span style="font-style: italic;"> bad luck</span>, you will be crushed beyond recognition. He-he-he. BUT if you get sucked into a<span style="font-weight: bold;"> rotating black hole</span>, you can start <span style="font-style: italic;">shouting for joy</span> because you might just come out of the other side in a different time and space. This is what a scientist called, Kerr said. Some people do not believe him but I do. It is fantastic.<br /></p>Wilfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15255247027469318384noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21018539.post-58916946848625700132008-07-05T21:18:00.011+01:002008-07-06T10:53:00.473+01:00Weird Bloke<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhapCdmG12T77CJqBNL4pbg4C4xeCOAN3jduWUD5hurIvPl8kPsxxDFaMyK6iI27bK9t_5lGlru3FB60j9qMq-kRgHLuklIBEEIib42IpSX6w9691yxYcprROKPjiSDwvAzcFeE/s1600-h/wig.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhapCdmG12T77CJqBNL4pbg4C4xeCOAN3jduWUD5hurIvPl8kPsxxDFaMyK6iI27bK9t_5lGlru3FB60j9qMq-kRgHLuklIBEEIib42IpSX6w9691yxYcprROKPjiSDwvAzcFeE/s320/wig.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5219826622194242642" border="0" /></a><br />The nightmare that is the school trip is here. I sit on the back seat next to Dexter, Miranda and a new boy called Isambard. I like Isambard, mainly because he has a worse name than me but also because he is quite keen on Buzz Aldrin and wants to be an astronaut.<br /><br />Here are the good bit about the bus. Weird Bloke is a helper.<br />Mr<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5tS245XXCBR0szciI6NS44ojDl8oSNSyKoY5qH_QkZn-dcZDIAlHnO_vepfXpjR11BedSPIWQ5lF-cML2JNB5NfdX6A8UD7Df-DdDD9B3BeFHlf6Uu0hzdnZkfWNImIIaIpho/s1600-h/bad+toupe.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5tS245XXCBR0szciI6NS44ojDl8oSNSyKoY5qH_QkZn-dcZDIAlHnO_vepfXpjR11BedSPIWQ5lF-cML2JNB5NfdX6A8UD7Df-DdDD9B3BeFHlf6Uu0hzdnZkfWNImIIaIpho/s320/bad+toupe.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5219836700648482866" border="0" /></a>s Trundle, headteacher and part-time assassin is on a course about being nice to children so Weird Bloke is with us instead. He is short and has no lips (quite weird). He speaks in a high pitched rush, like he is trying to get all his words in before being crushed by a giant foot (really weird) and he is married to Mrs Trundle (SHIVER). He is always trying to make you interested in boring stuff like fishing and poems about daffodils. Anyway, he is not often seen outside, because of his head. The fact is, his head is not really attached to his hair nowadays. He thinks that nobody knows this fact but he is <span style="font-style: italic;">wrong</span>.<br /><br />We are on the motorway. Weird Bloke has turned round to us. He is opening his mouth to talk about <span style="font-style: italic;">fishing</span> to Dexter. Dexter is going all shifty eyes. If he was not sitting on a coach he would be <span style="font-style: italic;">running</span> away. Isambard and Miranda stare out of the windows at the interesting motorway metal barriers. Only I can help. There is one chance.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6MmCans8_TxSbobq6_hlxNlic__ZTrTlchgQYWOOvODtUGgV1lFClODRoAJRWEZW37QVUu8wNI9liKTw2JBgZR4NALTVvj_tVgMK0tBnPZnZRmuQK0EStTJQuxtCqczOzB-55/s1600-h/school+coach.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6MmCans8_TxSbobq6_hlxNlic__ZTrTlchgQYWOOvODtUGgV1lFClODRoAJRWEZW37QVUu8wNI9liKTw2JBgZR4NALTVvj_tVgMK0tBnPZnZRmuQK0EStTJQuxtCqczOzB-55/s320/school+coach.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5219835222075254098" border="0" /></a><br />'I feel sick, Mr Trundle,' I say.<br />'Sick?' he says, 'sick? Sick?'<br />I nod. 'Too hot,' I bend over. 'Ugh. Need air.'<br />'Air?' says Mr Trundle, 'air? Air?' He looks round, maybe for some air.<br />'Up there, the window in the roof!' I say.<br />'The roof, of course, the roof, the roof!' He reaches up and pushes at the glass.<br /><br />It opens in a rush. His wig flies upwards and is sucked outside. It dances about outside the window for a bit and then escapes into the woods.<br />Weird.<br /><br /><a style="font-style: italic;" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9JH7f2PjlKOOu1xmu8JzdvgtIt9-89De3oH61PSGKRFHAKFaD79r93U1JaOMUfS3pcD3XIHbRK8kQUCjeIdl0Tlpz33IIac7p3B7zJl8kijquCAOcCZddOaIoYVUZysQIyJLt/s1600-h/baldness+magazine.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9JH7f2PjlKOOu1xmu8JzdvgtIt9-89De3oH61PSGKRFHAKFaD79r93U1JaOMUfS3pcD3XIHbRK8kQUCjeIdl0Tlpz33IIac7p3B7zJl8kijquCAOcCZddOaIoYVUZysQIyJLt/s320/baldness+magazine.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5219646253465704514" border="0" /></a><br />Th<span style="font-style: italic;">e Aus</span><span style="font-style: italic;">t</span><span style="font-style: italic;">rian-born wigmaker established the House of Louis Feder, Inc., in 1914, created his famou</span><span style="font-style: italic;">s "Tashay" (he did not like the word, "toupee") and advertised it as "<span style="font-weight: bold;">a hurricane-resisting hairpiece that can be combed and brushed, kept on in high winds and when swimming, and worn for weeks without removal."</span></span> <span style="font-style: italic;"></span><span style="font-style: italic;"></span>Wilfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15255247027469318384noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21018539.post-49671810500706787942008-06-29T14:34:00.008+01:002008-06-29T15:39:24.604+01:00A Few Non Lethal Weapons<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_ORfTP7t-bUOvuXdvQN3SUtCFMrgaPHW7KSa1KFmT-RQRTdR5bMdFRGlDaBiSfg1CRBh4M0UdDTRfHMAJs5TvEf9xVyIkdqUVh9ztCN0CcBeBimsbL84CYlbPtPtYqJdHpO1e/s1600-h/interrogation.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_ORfTP7t-bUOvuXdvQN3SUtCFMrgaPHW7KSa1KFmT-RQRTdR5bMdFRGlDaBiSfg1CRBh4M0UdDTRfHMAJs5TvEf9xVyIkdqUVh9ztCN0CcBeBimsbL84CYlbPtPtYqJdHpO1e/s320/interrogation.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5217312858654877442" border="0" /></a><br />Aunt Harpy is staying in a secret location somewhere nearby. She will not tell Mum where it is, just in case MI5 come and find her for interrogating purposes. This is mad and also slightly annoying as we do not know when she will turn up and cannot prepare ourselves for a visit by being out.<br /><br />Anyway, Dexter came round to show me his tennis racquet. His Dad bought it off e-ba<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicqRcs_6tCaTq73g16iFmAxjLwr235ZhUZpaHJ0Dx22gfzHC0Wu25bXBfZKA-AwvxaizaQM_O8xC8Wa521dl-R_hB-eHlL1_5rnnhPxuHzQECIwoOF1aSZ2nbmfeBFYzjykD8s/s1600-h/tennis+racquet.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicqRcs_6tCaTq73g16iFmAxjLwr235ZhUZpaHJ0Dx22gfzHC0Wu25bXBfZKA-AwvxaizaQM_O8xC8Wa521dl-R_hB-eHlL1_5rnnhPxuHzQECIwoOF1aSZ2nbmfeBFYzjykD8s/s320/tennis+racquet.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5217309489706970258" border="0" /></a>y and it used to belong to five times Wimbledon champion, Bjorn Borg. So it is a bit worn out. We go into the back garden and I get out Mum's old bat from her shed but we cannot find a ball. This is a problem, so we look for other things to hit. We find cat poo, a mouldy apple and a dead baby bird. The cat poo shatters into cat poo rain and the mouldy apple does not even make it to the racquet. The dead bird bounces the best but soon falls apart. So we then have to fight each other with fallen branches until Dexter gashes his arm on the end of my stick and breaks it. We stop and ponder our rubbish weapons and think about ones that do not produce so much blood.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Here are a fe</span><span style="font-style: italic;">w:</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">1.</span> <span style="font-weight: bold;">Fast setting </span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijKeHM1OrwlVjKXWdjdXhyYA5-eSs3rjty3HkFRRJk7jForbpag4kpIUvVuCBbFAqXqIFsxL09Hnv6lDUJybpBd4BO-5DWpZmlLCwLC3qkXUWcNnBfZHkH6R7iGVH6C_grPKyb/s1600-h/banana+peel.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijKeHM1OrwlVjKXWdjdXhyYA5-eSs3rjty3HkFRRJk7jForbpag4kpIUvVuCBbFAqXqIFsxL09Hnv6lDUJybpBd4BO-5DWpZmlLCwLC3qkXUWcNnBfZHkH6R7iGVH6C_grPKyb/s320/banana+peel.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5217310260450104082" border="0" /></a><span style="font-weight: bold;">glue</span>. This could be like the stuff Spiderman uses and shoots out of his h<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwpw5PXEnh0SWBgXDgIXzEUHqfkXqVzymS31sjp5fDFmhVfrY1zWV_irrACyzpDLn0AXEGz11vz5e2iPAFxdFQfEe_wRtUSKaTvtKPnKtpbGlWT4Lvq0AAor5WPphEsnV4o7jj/s1600-h/spiderman+weapon.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwpw5PXEnh0SWBgXDgIXzEUHqfkXqVzymS31sjp5fDFmhVfrY1zWV_irrACyzpDLn0AXEGz11vz5e2iPAFxdFQfEe_wRtUSKaTvtKPnKtpbGlWT4Lvq0AAor5WPphEsnV4o7jj/s320/spiderman+weapon.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5217310618925854610" border="0" /></a>ands.<br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><br />2.</span> <span style="font-weight: bold;">Instant ba</span><span style="font-weight: bold;">nana peel</span>. This is where you make the road so slippery nothing can stay upright. There might be a few problems trying to get people<span style="font-style: italic;"> off</span> the super-slippery roads though. They would probably be all over the place trying to escape. You might have to use something like...<br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><br />3</span>.<span style="font-weight: bold;"> Instant stiffening powder</span> to cut down on flailing. Then you could use a giant shovel pusher and shove them into custody. Once everyone had stopped laughing.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjL8BzElcDPwbofSZEEEWhFI5VOVHmaGC4dM50IfSvkgN9sJ8aIIv29vGoOOy1MaIUqeqmjrJ6HMOHSia0GrjnS0i7Bg12pVnjs9ex-qdefE4pJVYaEL_ODkOHDvCWOt-W_wUWk/s1600-h/knockout+gas.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjL8BzElcDPwbofSZEEEWhFI5VOVHmaGC4dM50IfSvkgN9sJ8aIIv29vGoOOy1MaIUqeqmjrJ6HMOHSia0GrjnS0i7Bg12pVnjs9ex-qdefE4pJVYaEL_ODkOHDvCWOt-W_wUWk/s320/knockout+gas.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5217309962726214898" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><br />4</span>. <span style="font-weight: bold;">Knock out gas or dart</span>. Trials of these were carried out at Porton Down. They used a drug called<span style="font-style: italic;"> 'apomorphine'. </span>Something must have gone a bit wrong because they stopped the trials saying there was,<span style="font-style: italic;"> 'an unacceptably high risk <span style="font-weight: bold;">of death</span>'.</span> This is not good if you are just trying to stop a bingo night getting out of hand or somesuch.<br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><br />5</span>. <span style="font-weight: bold;">Capture nets</span>. These could explode into the air in thin coils of wire covered in glue. Then they land on people and hold them down.<br /><br />All of these a<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwr5I7DBIuQ8ZSBug1x6oKkOn7x61_2meoPWkYg_IEKsrejWGz7fOVbEQuvZEhNWAY2wMv8C2jHuHOh9iLkX7x8KEw-G0q2ZYuQS5kdnslzsIjKQMkKeGjdyPNXgvZqWUWRn67/s1600-h/sticks+attack.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwr5I7DBIuQ8ZSBug1x6oKkOn7x61_2meoPWkYg_IEKsrejWGz7fOVbEQuvZEhNWAY2wMv8C2jHuHOh9iLkX7x8KEw-G0q2ZYuQS5kdnslzsIjKQMkKeGjdyPNXgvZqWUWRn67/s320/sticks+attack.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5217311010705136130" border="0" /></a>re actual ideas from actual scientists being paid money. I think you could use <span style="font-weight: bold;">modif</span><span style="font-weight: bold;">ie</span><span style="font-weight: bold;">d </span><span style="font-weight: bold;">s</span><span style="font-weight: bold;">t</span><span style="font-weight: bold;">ick insects </span>to crowd control people. You load their legs with glue and shoot them at people. They scream and flail but the stick insects stick to their heads or wherever. And if this is not enough then the stick could inject a dose of knockout gloop from its mouth parts.<br /><br /><br /><br />I do not expect anyone will ask me but if the PM telephones me again at least I will have something good to tell him.Wilfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15255247027469318384noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21018539.post-31069141623601292992008-06-21T21:59:00.013+01:002008-06-22T11:48:54.176+01:00Geroge And Me Have Things To Talk About<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-357L1cT22Q9rJpobg0Oglvo2OmL1P5DNDX8dhFgC2EGZEJxghf-ze36ESHP5N4jWNy8M0CHfzte6mDROIU6PvV4QXr9i5k4jBXZkXgINzngGO0SUk0ld0XEZJtyCxmzaWVOJ/s1600-h/flying+witch.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-357L1cT22Q9rJpobg0Oglvo2OmL1P5DNDX8dhFgC2EGZEJxghf-ze36ESHP5N4jWNy8M0CHfzte6mDROIU6PvV4QXr9i5k4jBXZkXgINzngGO0SUk0ld0XEZJtyCxmzaWVOJ/s320/flying+witch.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5214656039257663874" border="0" /></a><br />Anyway, we are having a visit from Grandpa Jack' s sister called Hatty. She is even more Irish than Grandpa Jack because she actually lives in Ireland all the time. We have never met her but Grandpa Jack says she speaks english and likes to boss people around and tell them what is going wrong in their lives and how much better her life is. She does not travel very often because she does not like to fly but Grandpa Jack says all witches like flying (ha ha). Grandpa Jack calls her a harridan and a harpy and he is going on holiday while she is in the country. He is afraid of her.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0Lh8B3oZOrxW37OcvIjjqiJF7knOFKCbY8aXLCMoi8CqGPCjcbhUwU2-PkGvDU0VxFLF1jEPOhDwxNcPPIdisxWVnik9VAZ6bLwa27v3Oj0QJXtWReZP-lQ0eXp3PFQYQFsWl/s1600-h/old+woman.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0Lh8B3oZOrxW37OcvIjjqiJF7knOFKCbY8aXLCMoi8CqGPCjcbhUwU2-PkGvDU0VxFLF1jEPOhDwxNcPPIdisxWVnik9VAZ6bLwa27v3Oj0QJXtWReZP-lQ0eXp3PFQYQFsWl/s320/old+woman.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5214652832278497138" border="0" /></a>Dad is hiding in the cellar with his teeth collection when the front door bells rings and rings and does not stop ringing until I open the door. I stop a gasp. An old woman is there. She is like a human stick insect, all thin and long and sticky but with strange hairy clothes on, the colour of sick. She has grey hair barging out of her head like it is having a noisy dance party. She looks down at me through really thick glasses.<br />'To be sure, you are taller on the telephone, Dr Marshall,' she says and her thin lips snap together like a purse. 'I would not be putting my teeth in your hands, I think.'<br />'That's my Dad,' I explain. 'He is bigger than me and actually older and he has a beard as well.'<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLEE5Z7Huht6WEq4VzWJoE5e-XSHgn3YmBD3I1_fKK9XtKKLQw_B238sIHTWO94YyRPCKLJ92Ip_1mPgFnaMs6R93YxYVfbEEJM7yQ_q4Q2ThfkyOB5yVGcm53CUrxQkZ8SKW1/s1600-h/hairy+jacket.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLEE5Z7Huht6WEq4VzWJoE5e-XSHgn3YmBD3I1_fKK9XtKKLQw_B238sIHTWO94YyRPCKLJ92Ip_1mPgFnaMs6R93YxYVfbEEJM7yQ_q4Q2ThfkyOB5yVGcm53CUrxQkZ8SKW1/s320/hairy+jacket.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5214654339317204210" border="0" /></a><br />She stalks past me and hands me her hairy jacket. It is so furry, I am worried it is going to bite me. I throw it in the cupboard under the stairs - just in case.<br />'I will be taking five sugars in my tea and not one granule more. Where is your dear mother George?'<br />'Mum's name is Daphne,' I tell her, 'not George.'<br />She laughs like I have made a big joke.<br />'I must say I expected you to be a little more...' she pauses and adjusts her glasses. '...more like a baby.'<br />'George is the baby,' I say, 'I am Wilf and I am 9.'<br />'Your mother did not inform me of another child in the house!' she screeches. 'Anyway, you are too small to be nine years of age. My Derek was a good five foot ten at your age and strong as great big giant.'<br />'I am not small,' I say, 'I am the 4th tallest in my class and I am very strong.'<br />'Oh, Aunt Hatty!' says Mum. 'How are you?' George is squirming in her arms going red. I KNOW what he is doing.<br />'This must be George at last,' says Aunt Harpy. 'I will take him now and look him over.' She grabs him and George smiles. 'See, he loves me, all babies and small children love me - it's a gift I have. I am like a<span style="font-style: italic;"> goddess</span> to my grandson.'<br />'<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjouiRo9LIJ4Sm0d2eq_K9ZG4phneIicS77NrmXN4-k9d639Rlm4sFXrixkligVzqfdePzJ78lRXMpWH3k6A8pKve5MtF41IptGFvmHUpByryTf7p21t-kuvnPjoBlUsKda4sD/s1600-h/baby+poo.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjouiRo9LIJ4Sm0d2eq_K9ZG4phneIicS77NrmXN4-k9d639Rlm4sFXrixkligVzqfdePzJ78lRXMpWH3k6A8pKve5MtF41IptGFvmHUpByryTf7p21t-kuvnPjoBlUsKda4sD/s320/baby+poo.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5214655765792360962" border="0" /></a>How is Peter?' asks Mum.<br />'Six foot four and still growing,' says Great Aunt Harpy, looking at me. 'Unlike some people.'<br />At that moment, George lets out a massive stinky poo. It goes on and on and he goes purple in he face. I am sure he winks at me.<br />'I think I'll take that tea now,' says Aunt Harpy, sniffing madly. 'You may have the baby back.'<br />'I will take him,' I say. 'George and me have things to talk about.'<br />Baby poo has an up side.Wilfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15255247027469318384noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21018539.post-45385465500491000542008-06-14T12:38:00.018+01:002008-06-15T10:23:27.329+01:00Fascinating Inventor No.4 - Edward Harrison, Inventor of the Small Box Respirator 1869 - 1918<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSby-YLxiN0mr7PtO7GfIfVldhb0TOyuGec1mvLA11TBuWwrK5EO0o8hgsGO1yDTxGfr6F8FFIaA5y5YshyFGVBXV0qGoSDzuVI-nXBR0J4ATvgHS_xcC_pnkG2mT_vn7DE9PP/s1600-h/gerbil.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSby-YLxiN0mr7PtO7GfIfVldhb0TOyuGec1mvLA11TBuWwrK5EO0o8hgsGO1yDTxGfr6F8FFIaA5y5YshyFGVBXV0qGoSDzuVI-nXBR0J4ATvgHS_xcC_pnkG2mT_vn7DE9PP/s320/gerbil.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5212034477942970578" border="0" /></a><br />My best friend Dexter comes round. He stands on the doorstep and sniffs.<br />'Hello,' I say for starters, and, 'come in.'<br />He shakes his head and carries on standing and sniffing like a complete gerbil.<br />'Your house smells,' he announces. He leans forward. 'You smell as well.'<br />'What of?' I ask. And, 'so what?'<br />'Baby poo, you whiff of baby poo.' He pulls a face.<br />'CLOSE THE FRONT DOOR!' Dad yells from the kitchen, 'ALL THE AIR IS ESCAPING!'<br />I picture Dad on the floor, flapping his legs and gasping for air, like a goldfish accidentally tipped <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhPSL6Z-PTbC6ivLCwo_ONzLrz2QfyNQc0Rm9PpQgqJlQLbQ7qtVIVJ_qwPJJcfeMVeBH1OzR2lnjdAmxjr4mmSOMrrMPwXHLhYog7SouvNnPsi6W12OSVlH9QAIZslnDMC4ep/s1600-h/goldfish+in+air.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhPSL6Z-PTbC6ivLCwo_ONzLrz2QfyNQc0Rm9PpQgqJlQLbQ7qtVIVJ_qwPJJcfeMVeBH1OzR2lnjdAmxjr4mmSOMrrMPwXHLhYog7SouvNnPsi6W12OSVlH9QAIZslnDMC4ep/s320/goldfish+in+air.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5211709563448594082" border="0" /></a>out of the tank. I am about to amuse Dexter with this exciting image when he pipes up.<br />'Can't stay.' And he runs off.<br />I close the front door and sniff the imprisoned air. I shake my head sadly. Dexter is right - the waft of poo is everywhere. And it took my best friend to tell me.<br />It makes me think of the little known inventor hero, <a href="http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/in_pictures/7444496.stm">Edward Harrison</a>.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">" To save our armies from poison gas he have his last full measure of</span><a style="font-style: italic;" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixGOH__SKHx5wcrg4nce8rp8p5u-3WNZYpX9vLUAQY9667pPYp7OKAiJc7fWCl_2DHnxftic1NDQyxYU1VysrlqipYbebov9kt0bgz6zxwD-rohSMNovKRR7Ctqw2QY_OD_MFq/s1600-h/gas+mask+museum+dummy.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixGOH__SKHx5wcrg4nce8rp8p5u-3WNZYpX9vLUAQY9667pPYp7OKAiJc7fWCl_2DHnxftic1NDQyxYU1VysrlqipYbebov9kt0bgz6zxwD-rohSMNovKRR7Ctqw2QY_OD_MFq/s320/gas+mask+museum+dummy.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5212028555449540786" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;"> devotion.</span>"<br /><br />These are words on a war memorial to him. I think they mean that he worked himself<span style="font-style: italic;"> to death. A</span>nd although Mum and Dad are always saying that they work <span style="font-style: italic;">far too hard</span> and also, <span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >what did my last slave die of </span>and <span style="font-size:180%;">I will be the death of them</span>; I do not <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHav2SHCh0-M_QIkz-rT8Wkr738DfbNvGJ_s5M3UecyXX_MGpigTEix0GI4GuDYwQd87H5BBXtlODiHowkKO8BBcZuYlOlzW53dfz1xPyajAe4lheZfJNyNeFGaq61FERPj87W/s1600-h/gas+mask+photo.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHav2SHCh0-M_QIkz-rT8Wkr738DfbNvGJ_s5M3UecyXX_MGpigTEix0GI4GuDYwQd87H5BBXtlODiHowkKO8BBcZuYlOlzW53dfz1xPyajAe4lheZfJNyNeFGaq61FERPj87W/s320/gas+mask+photo.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5212028837957279874" border="0" /></a>think they really understand what working yourself To Death is like. <span style="font-weight: bold;">Edward Harrison</span> did it and it is fatal as well as being absolutely heroic. Because Mum and<br />Dad definitely <span style="font-style: italic;">did not die</span> striving to design and get into mass production the first gas masks or small box respirators.<p>Apparently, he and other chemistry heroes went into sealed rooms full of gas, to test the mask. This is mad but VERY brave and of course absolutely fatal.<br /></p><p>And, although the Prime Minister of Great Britain, did use the telephone to tell me to go to bed,<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVlPr07YWNXVAviiEV166fBbYCiYN0QqqOIYzOCwfwkFuvH0Cs0F4vlw9vrdojHjRvDaeiISOtksvAGeEf6DorpvZ5HB_u9PGiemNnRZj78ebRXE8VV2i9OLh7xlEYsrEONS_b/s1600-h/gas+mask+dog.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVlPr07YWNXVAviiEV166fBbYCiYN0QqqOIYzOCwfwkFuvH0Cs0F4vlw9vrdojHjRvDaeiISOtksvAGeEf6DorpvZ5HB_u9PGiemNnRZj78ebRXE8VV2i9OLh7xlEYsrEONS_b/s320/gas+mask+dog.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5212035459103811090" border="0" /></a> he did not speak to The Parents and offer his admiration, condolences and the revelation that he had decided to promote them to Brigadier-general in charge of all chemical warfare. Which is a big relief actually. By the time Winston Churchill wrote to Edward Harrison, to say, <span style="font-style: italic;">bother </span>and he was going to give him all of those things - he was dead. By the time the French got round to giving him a medal called the <span style="font-style: italic;">Legion d'honeur</span>, he was dead. By the time the war ended, <span style="font-weight: bold;">Edward Harrison</span> was dead but lots and lots of men (and dogs, see pic) who might have died, did not.<br /></p><p align="center"><img alt="A letter from Winston Churchill to Edward Harrison's widow, alongside a medal and a photo of Harrison" name="EdwardHarrison_Letter4" tcmuri="tcm:15-122412" src="http://www.rsc.org/images/090608_EdwardHarrison_Letter4_tcm18-122412.jpg" align="middle" height="349" width="350" /></p><p><br /></p>Wilfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15255247027469318384noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21018539.post-51972051885883147602008-06-07T14:36:00.011+01:002008-06-08T09:28:53.704+01:00Fascinating Inventors No. 3 - Lord Baden Powell<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZ08MB04Fjjkhyb_fgchCMmBhim3g4nOwALauGbXGhKp1TEm6RHs5Qa4cUjDLy01Z6Qmcg_Rx_YtQlNBfhWSE3bn0ISeeaH9O0dI7WGlh-Hc_obw0B7Fofhel7nWJEpt-b-T74/s1600-h/Scouting_for_Boys_Part_2_cover.gif"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZ08MB04Fjjkhyb_fgchCMmBhim3g4nOwALauGbXGhKp1TEm6RHs5Qa4cUjDLy01Z6Qmcg_Rx_YtQlNBfhWSE3bn0ISeeaH9O0dI7WGlh-Hc_obw0B7Fofhel7nWJEpt-b-T74/s320/Scouting_for_Boys_Part_2_cover.gif" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5209195341057979026" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggdYPuIKdZBfjkXeGvPG_mRRoSTt2VTT4tfQLS-9EF1D6Aqo42RWcZGumLbCAQqez6vDmmvvYX0nRoAt0zk5IxqFe84rcjfIOSmXpIfD6DW1LL8gm8_0N0N2_XYcubaUQt_VpC/s1600-h/Baden+Powell.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggdYPuIKdZBfjkXeGvPG_mRRoSTt2VTT4tfQLS-9EF1D6Aqo42RWcZGumLbCAQqez6vDmmvvYX0nRoAt0zk5IxqFe84rcjfIOSmXpIfD6DW1LL8gm8_0N0N2_XYcubaUQt_VpC/s320/Baden+Powell.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5209195169379551010" border="0" /></a><span style="color:#000000;"><span style="font-family:Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><b>Fascinating Inventors No. 3 – Lord Baden Powell, Robert </b></span></span></span><span style="color:#000000;"><span style="font-family:Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><b>Stephenson </b></span></span></span><span style="color:#000000;"><span style="font-family:Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><b>Smyth Baden-Powell (1857 – 1941)</b></span></span></span> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; line-height: 200%;"><span style="color:#000000;"><span style="font-family:Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span lang="en-GB"><i>Baden-Powell invented the boy-scout movement but before that he was a grown-up tracker- scout in</i></span></span></span></span><span style="color:#000000;"><span style="font-family:Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span lang="en-GB"><i> the Boer War in South Africa. He learn</i></span></span></span></span><span style="color:#000000;"><span style="font-family:Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span lang="en-GB"><i>t how to follow men and animals without being seen which is quite something. People there were always giving him nicknames – maybe because his own name was a bit of a mouthful. He was</i></span></span></span></span><span style="color:#000000;"><span style="font-family:Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span lang="en-GB"><i> known by the Zulus as "M'hlala P</i></span></span></span></span><span style="color:#000000;"><span style="font-family:Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span lang="en-GB"><i>anzi"-‘The man who lies down to shoot’. This does not mean that he was a bit lazy or his gun was too big for him; no, apparently it means, the man who takes</i></span></span></span></span><span style="color:#000000;"><span style="font-family:Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span lang="en-GB"><i> careful aim and thinks before he acts. Another nickname was,</i></span></span></span></span><span style="color:#000000;"><span style="font-family:Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span lang="en-GB"><i> </i></span></span></span></span><span style="color:#000000;"><span style="font-family:Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span lang="en-GB"><i>"Impeesa"- ‘Wolf who never sleeps’ which is impressive but, "Kantankye"- ‘He of the big hat’ is not quite so good.</i></span></span></span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; line-height: 200%;"><span style="color:#000000;"><span style="font-family:Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span lang="en-GB"><i>In 1899, Baden-Powell and his men were cut off by enemies, in a small town called Mafeking. H</i></span></span></span></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvi9j529y3seDPni2TgcPMR_pQL-2cgXBHtIDK8Om1zV0kF_4eUsgQs_AOMby1Pz0t1WTmASeD7bKWiNEklAnKYeKjEJIEYgoXgbzVRhywSnUP5LcCbdPQvm7Tb3aKF8PWHlPX/s1600-h/scout+whistling.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvi9j529y3seDPni2TgcPMR_pQL-2cgXBHtIDK8Om1zV0kF_4eUsgQs_AOMby1Pz0t1WTmASeD7bKWiNEklAnKYeKjEJIEYgoXgbzVRhywSnUP5LcCbdPQvm7Tb3aKF8PWHlPX/s320/scout+whistling.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5209198078435563922" border="0" /></a><span style="color:#000000;"><span style="font-family:Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span lang="en-GB"><i>e</i></span></span></span></span><span style="color:#000000;"><span style="font-family:Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span lang="en-GB"><i> w</i></span></span></span></span><span style="color:#000000;"><span style="font-family:Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span lang="en-GB"><i>on the siege through daring determination, using dumm</i></span></span></span></span><span style="color:#000000;"><span style="font-family:Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span lang="en-GB"><i>ies and pretend bombs and biscuit tin</i></span></span></span></span><span style="color:#000000;"><span style="font-family:Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span lang="en-GB"><i> searchlights. After that he became the youngest Major-General in the British army. When he</i></span></span></span></span><span style="color:#000000;"><span style="font-family:Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span lang="en-GB"><i> arrived home he found he had a lot of fans. They had read his book,</i></span></span></span></span><span style="color:#000000;"><span style="font-family:Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span lang="en-GB"><i><b> ‘Aid to Scouting’ </b></i></span></span></span></span><span style="color:#000000;"><span style="font-family:Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span lang="en-GB"><i>and they wanted to be just like him.</i></span></span></span></span><span style="color:#000000;"><span style="font-family:Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span lang="en-GB"><i> So he set up the Boy </i></span></span></span></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ800gT3JbAufbjfEnm8NJw8YmPjWURDN7EI7AtFpGh4CP8yuaa-EUCK3B-5W1Hwz-yenHrDwM1J4JgAH2QOLZpkvd7J7pwjrgqhsXIw56E3SK8L1UfLj9x8Qv4QGXDPLl4-iv/s1600-h/scouting+stuff+1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ800gT3JbAufbjfEnm8NJw8YmPjWURDN7EI7AtFpGh4CP8yuaa-EUCK3B-5W1Hwz-yenHrDwM1J4JgAH2QOLZpkvd7J7pwjrgqhsXIw56E3SK8L1UfLj9x8Qv4QGXDPLl4-iv/s320/scouting+stuff+1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5209196175252543474" border="0" /></a><span style="color:#000000;"><span style="font-family:Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span lang="en-GB"><i>Scouts. He knew that boys liked making gangs and whittling sticks with penknives, and he knew that they did not like being marched about and given orders so he invented a movement for doing woodwork in gangs and mucking about with fires and tents – and no marching. He made up lots of laws for the</i></span></span></span></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgm5dwrUtSY6LIp1W_eS3US0_ure1uMGI2NTfEigDygK5Um_HskvIwqEBwozwvjjJw_LYvz0wgZTnVbuzhF7651192dM8u5a01MjaeYJbLYFhhS3XeZhWFbeLoG30tGtGKzU_kn/s1600-h/scout+whittling.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgm5dwrUtSY6LIp1W_eS3US0_ure1uMGI2NTfEigDygK5Um_HskvIwqEBwozwvjjJw_LYvz0wgZTnVbuzhF7651192dM8u5a01MjaeYJbLYFhhS3XeZhWFbeLoG30tGtGKzU_kn/s320/scout+whittling.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5209198517745398546" border="0" /></a><span style="color:#000000;"><span style="font-family:Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span lang="en-GB"><i> scouting</i></span></span></span></span><span style="color:#000000;"><span style="font-family:Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span lang="en-GB"><i> movement, like always smiling and whistling and being friendly to</i></span></span></span></span><span style="color:#000000;"><span style="font-family:Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span lang="en-GB"><i> animals but the main things were to ‘do good’ and ‘be prepared’.</i></span></span></span></span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0cm; line-height: 200%;"><span style="color:#000000;"><span style="font-family:Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span lang="en-GB"><i><br /></i></span></span></span></span> </p> <p style="text-indent: 1.27cm; margin-bottom: 0cm; line-height: 200%;" lang="en-GB"><br /></p>Wilfhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15255247027469318384noreply@blogger.com2