canny granny

I’m beginning to wonder about my fellow members of the Lawn Bowls Club Ladies Team.

I read today that the Women’s Dragon-boat Racing Team in China turned out to be men in wigs. It seems the Team was of composed of suspiciously big women with Adam’s apples, and now I’m starting to look at the ladies on the lawn more closely.

Specifically at Beryl who is my new partner in the Doubles Championships. (That’s her on the left)

I’ve noticed she’s very shy in the Change Room and, when she drinks a sherry, she clutches the glass in her fist in a most unladylike manner. And she passes wind frequently. If that’s not masculine behaviour I’ll eat my bowls.

Cross Dressing the way to win medals in China

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How do you stop chewing your fingernails, overeating, smoking, and picking your nose? My renter, Ghost Works, has a whole heap of people with questions of this nature. In the case of Lee Redmond, nail-biting should be actively encouraged.

If I had nails like that I wouldn’t be announcing it to the world. It seems she became bored with cutting her nails back in 1979 and decided to grow them just for a jolly lark. “It’s strange how they become you,” she said. “It’s almost like it’s your identity.”. Well it would be, wouldn’t it.

I’ll just have a small glass of sherry and gather the courage to ask my renter a question about long fingernails and toilet paper.

Story Link

So it’s all official now. The Moon drives us mad. I could have told them years ago. Forget the romance, string orchestras and soft moonlight.

My dear departed always went a trifle dippy at the Full Moon. I used to keep a small amount of a cash in a vase to bail him out from the local lockup and sometimes I let him sit in the cell all night if I were a tad cranky. And, to tell the truth, it was a pleasant relief to get a little rest from his endless stories of fighting the Japanese. I would have kicked him in the orchestra stalls myself if I weren’t such a lady.

In 18th-century England, a murderer could plead lunacy if the crime were committed at the time of the full moon. I wish I had known that.

(I read it in the paper this morning…The Lunar Effect)

Devout Catholic Patty Powell picked up a fibreglass statue while passing through Bangkok, took it home, stuck it on a shelf and then forgot about it. But, in the middle of a hearty Spring Clean, he discovered a miracle!

The statue was crying.

Patty, to give him due credit, immediately realised he was witnessing the Mother of God performing a manifestation of rose-scented, oily tears in a fibreglass replica. Someone like myself, a little slow on the uptake in the mornings, would put it down to delirium brought on by the effort of waving a feather duster around, but Patty is made of sterner stuff.

People are queuing up to see the statue. Apparently it’s giving great comfort to the sick and dying.

Mind you, I’ve seen some rather nice bits and pieces from Bangkok in my time, but nothing that would give me much comfort on my death bed. It only goes to prove that there’s no accounting for taste.