"A Lot of Kisses on the Bottom . . . "(*)

Tess takes us back to the days of the Penny Post for this week's Mag.

Dear Miss Gibbs . . . there in Henley-in-Arden
I've been lifting the spuds in my garden.
I found one or two
that made me think of you

with my best regards . . and beg pardon.

FTSE
XXXXX

(*) from a well known ditty recorded by Fats Waller et al

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1000000000000066600000000000001

Eh?

Alright, I'll explain.

First:       It's a PALINDROMIC number. (Reads same either way)
Second:  It's a PRIME number.  (Divisible only by itself and 1- check it out!)
Third:     2 groups of 13 zeroes. (So it's doubly unlucky!)
Fourth:   That's the Sign of the Beast  - "666" - in the middle!

Known as "Belphegor's Prime"

Now Google "Belphegor"  - and tremble!

(G-Man asked for 55  apocalyptic words for his on-going FFF55. This was the best I could do.)

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Mag 190

Tess gives us an appealing photo of a dog with a world view to inspire us this week.

The Man in the Bowler Hat

Here he comes again. Same time every morning. That man in the bowler hat.  My ambition is to make his hat my own.  If the gap in my master's fence was one plank wider I could achieve my goal.  Every morning the man leans down to pat me and says "Hello, Boy! How are we today?" Well, I know how I am. All I know about him is he's wearing my hat. Where was I?  Yes. If the gap was a bit wider I would growl and throw my head back and bark. Whereupon he would jerk his hand away and look alarmed. When he backed away I would squeeze through the gap. Then he would look  really scared, wondering whether to stand his ground and make conciliatory noises, turn and walk briskly away, or run for his life. I'm a big dog, and powerful, despite being pink with blue eyes.  Really, he'd have little chance.  If I could talk I'd say "I don't want to hurt you. Just hand over the hat." But as you know, dogs can't talk, except for some pathetic little mutts who get on TV because they can say "Sausages." So I'd spring. Too bad if I knock him over. I'd seize the hat by the brim and yank it off his head, so I would.  The man, recovering from his alarm, would see me lying down the way dogs do, full length with the hat between my front paws. Maybe he'd say "Ah!  It's a game you want?  You want me to throw the hat and shout 'Fetch'!"  He'd be confusing hats with sticks. The Man Who Thought His Hat Was a Stick. But when he reached down to retrieve his hat I'd get a grip on the brim.  I'd win the pulling match because I'm big and strong as well as pink.  Pretty soon he'd see my teeth marks in the brim and mutter something like "Oh botheration! Now it's all serrated.  Well, I can always buy another hat."  Then he'd pat me on the head and walk away.  Maybe he'd look back over his shoulder, to see me biting more bits out of the brim so it looks like a black flower with petals. But he'd be round the corner before he saw me biting a big hole in the smooth, round crown of the hat so I can push my head through it and wear it  round my neck, the best dog collar in all the world.  Pity the gap isn't wide enough.

Mag 189

Tess gives us this picture prompt for Mag 189 to get our imaginations ticking over . . .

image by crilleb50

A studious fellow called Lime

said "Sitting alone is no crime.

And it's surely not folly

to lean on my brolly

while I work out the average time."

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Imperfect Solution.

Tess's prompt this week is a common sight on the narrow roads in the remoter parts of Scotland and the Scottish Islands.

photo by Steven Kelly 

"Sir, sir!  Pull in here!"
"It's a passing place, Simpleforth, not a lay-by.  The school mini-bus will block it."
"Exactly!"
"You can't park in a passing place!  Why do you want to stop?  Do you need a  comfort break?"
"No Sir!  I just want to work something out."
(Sotto voce) "OMG . . another Simpleforth theory." (Aloud) "Anway . . we've passed the passing place now.  If you want to stop we should look for a MacDonald's."
"In this wilderness?  Not another vehicle in site horizon to horizon. No MacDonalds, petrol stations, herds of antelope, village fetes, burnt out lorries. Nothing. Why do they need a passing place when nothing wants to get past anythng else?"
"You're becoming cryptic again, Simpleforth. And this road would be busy in summer. Tourists in caravans and so on.  So what did you want to work out?"
"Well sir, I wondered what would happen if two vehicles travelling in opposite directions both decided to drive courteously and both of them headed into the passing place at the same time and smashed into each other and the drivers got out, and after pointing at each other and at their crashed cars, they started raising their voices  . .  and then started fighting each other?"
"You have a fine schoolboy imagination, young man. But where is this scenario going?"
"Nothing else can get past now, sir!  Because the passing place is blocked."
"Point taken. So?"
"So when the next vehicles travelling in opposite directions arrive, they can't pass each other - "
"Of course not.  That's obvious."
" - unless one of them backs-up to the next passing place down, or up, the road.  And before they get there, they meet another vehicle travelling in the same but the opposite direction, so to speak."
"What?"
"Well, sir. Suppose one of them was heading south.  To get to the next passing place, it has to head north, but going backwards. And meets another vehicle heading south, but going forwards.  Another deadlock. Until the vehicle heading south backs up to the next passing place, but on the way, meets another vehicle . . . "
"Simpleforth, is this where I should bury my face in my hands?"
"Oh no, Sir!  The minibus could crash."
"So what exactly is your point?'
"Well Sir, if two vehicles crash head-on in a passing place, pretty soon you have a situation where the line of vehicles that was heading south is now going north backwards looking for a passing place and another line going . .  "
"Alright, Simpleforth. I follow your argument. So what should we conclude?"
"Well sir, how about  - Passing Places are not a good way of getting vehicles past each other and better to just widen the roads."
"Now why didn't I think of that?"


I am indebted to a fellow blogger (No.16) whose inspirational haiku was the inspiration for this effort. Thank you, Horseman.

A Dance To the Music of Time

Friends and followers who are aware that I have long been Numbered Amongst the Downtrodden might like to hear of my latest misfortune and who knows, leave a conciliatory comment below this post.

painting by Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec

This is what happened.  Accompanied by a fellow blogger who must remain nameless for reasons of anonymity and modesty, I or rather she and I, entered the Olde Timers' Dancing Competition, a sort of slowed down version of "Strictly Come Dancing." Contestants - who are not permitted to use zimmer frames or space-hoppers - must be in their xth decade where "x" is large and positive, and must enter in three categories, namely the St.Bernard Waltz(*), the stately Gavotte and to jazz things up a bit, the "Hands, Knees and Bumps-A-Mabel."  This is a variant of the better known "Hands, Knees and Bumps-A-Daisy." The variant was popularised in my, I should say our youth by the Edwardian master dancing-master Sir Lancelot Simpleforth-Jinks, known as High Jinks because of untreatable B.O.

All went well until we came to the last category when our chance of ending up on the medals rostrum came crashing to the ground. She bumps-a-mabeled - which is what we had rehearsed - but I lost the place and bumps-a-daisied more vigorously than usual. My partner hissed "Do a reverse cross-buttock! It's the only way out of this mess." But too late! We also came crashing to the ground in a tangle of limbs and petticoats amid cries from the audience of "They're not Olde Timers!  They're in their second childhoods! Disqualify!  Disqualify!"

I tell you, folks, at my age life is no longer a breeze as I'm sure you'll agree.  I need a drink.

(*) This lumbering 3/4 is included to give Old Dogs a chance.

It's the Mag prompt and the unfailing Tess Kincaid who puts these ideas into me head.

Another blooper!

Regular as clockwork G-Man invites 55 words that shed new light on the human condition.

As an aid for the hard of hearing Thos. Edison invented a headband with a flashing light on a little stalk that flashed on-and-off in the wearer's field of vision whenever their phone rang. Geddit?  So they knew the phone was ringing and could take the call - but when they picked up the handset . .  OOPS!

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THOSE H&S NAZIS AGAIN!

55 words of fiction for G-Man?  

My local operatic society wanted to stage their musical version of "Hound of the Baskervilles" with Mrs. Groundling's Japanese Tosa in the lead role. We felt that this was just the dog for ripping Sir Henry to ribbons.  But Health and Safety objected, unfortunately, and the part was given to Nippy, a West Highland terrier who barks "Sausages."

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Inspired By Another's 55

and by G-Man, ever on the look out for 55 words of wisdom.

I have 3 pairs of orange socks and 3 pairs lime green.  I open my sock drawer in darkness.  How many must I take out to ensure I picked a matching pair?

1.  Give them to Other Mary.  She'll happily lose them for you.
2.  Surely you can see socks like those in the dark?
3.  Three. (Why?)

Ladies . . Look Away Now

Tess's prompt brings out the best in Kubrik and the worst in FTSE(*)

Says he "May I give them a squeeze?"
Says she "You referring to these?
Well listen here, Chum
in years yet to come
they'll prove useful for warming my knees."


Stanley Kubrick for Look Magazine, 1949 

(*) Remember . .  he's a Doctor. He knows about these things.