What’s cookin’ at Nic’s place, Part 1

Life at Nic’s… :)

May I present, my (mal)nourishment store.

The Cream Soda bottle is water bottle #3.

Not shown, due to default reas­ons: Mrs. Ball’s chut­ney, salt, sugar, tea & rusks, i.e.: ‘the staple stable’.

…and all of those mil­lions of women spend a for­tune on fancy diets, try­ing to stay thin. Pshaw.

At first, there was Sur­vivor. Then came Big Brother. Now, it’s time for… Extreme Bach­elor.

In speaking of manners…

People with progeny…

To avoid your spawn suf­fer­ing the dis­pleas­ure of being told, oft & repeatedly, to for­nic­ate thineselves else­where, please ensure that the first word & phrase that they use, and under­stand, is:

1. Please.
2. Thank you.

To the rest, who have yet to com­pre­hend the mag­nitudin­ous implic­a­tions of these fun­da­mental responses, sit and rotate, you rude halfwits.

Preposterous Proportions

SizesI used to think that I was fairly smart, until I walked into a motor­cycle store, look­ing for a helmet…

The Hel­met Guy’ pro­filed me from two aisles away, declar­ing, con­fid­ently, that I was def­in­itely (only) a Medium. Per­haps I shouldn’t have been day­dream­ing so much in class in my time at school…

The par­al­lel conun­drum in this equa­tion was that I had recently bought a set of gloves, for which I’d been fit­ted with a pair labelled as ‘XL’.

It wor­ries me so, in a philo­soph­ical man­ner, that I am so dimensionally-irrationally equipped in the bod­ily com­pon­ent spectrum.

My jacket is an XXXL, but the para­chut­ist man­ner in which it envel­opes my per­son whilst upon my motor­ised steed, calms and soothens my upset, greatly.

Given some fur­ther thought, my unmen­tion­ables are a ‘L’, my trousers are always half a foot too short, my shirts are sail-like in their span, in order to fit my neck suit­ably and I seem to wear a shoe size that has escaped the range of seem­ingly all known cobblers.

By all accounts, I should look like The Ele­phant Man.

Hap­pily though, I can report that I look as ‘nor­mal’ as any­one I’ve come across and at least sev­eral people and two delight­ful canines love me no end.

The State of a Nation…

An unruly Std. 3. pupil has been repor­ted as con­tra­ven­ing the laws of decency in parliament.

Image cour­tesy of MG.co.za

Fear not though, for whilst from the out­side, Nkandla, the nation of the state, and home to the harem, the pub­lic private pool, sev­eral goats, a num­ber of pigs, some farm anim­als, illit­er­acy, abject poverty & a clearly back­wards men­tal­ity, may point to the state of the nation as a dire one, it, like its more not­able ancestor, the once-formidable Berg­hof — now a lovely forest, reclaimed by forces greater than it; where many anim­als romp freely, frolic gayly and piss know­ingly — shall return from whence it came; the ground. With time & patience, comes a full bladder.

There’s a hole, in the engine!

Yesterday’s flight had me in Row 15, the ‘emer­gency exit’ aisle…window seat…directly over the wing & engine…

I’m a Big Child, which means that I get rather excited by the thought of big machines, speed, power, etc.. As a res­ult, I tend to inspect cer­tain things more than most.

When we boarded, I looked at the engine. When we took off, I glanced at the engine. In flight, I observed the engine. At all times, the engine was whole and appeared to be in good order…

When we were com­ing in to land, I happened to look down yet again…however, I was now peer­ing dir­ectly into the engine! Ima­gine my surprise…

Do I worry? Do I call the host­ess? Do I wait…for something?


I chose the lat­ter, which was a good thing…as I later saw a cover slid­ing closed over what now made sense…the reverse thrust vents.

You know, they really should paint a sign onto the engine for clue­less pas­sen­gers that it’s not a case of shit fall­ing off of the plane, when you hap­pen to see a hole in the engine that wasn’t there a short while ago, but that pan­els do move, on pur­pose, and that you’ll live to tell the fool­ish story.