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Re: More ideas for Prunella
From: rusty.hinge@foobar.girolle.co.uk (Rusty Hinge)
Lydia Dustbin wrote:
"Prunella" <Prunella@chelonium.plus.com> wrote in message news:kfxPhBHpRAfMFwWw@chelonium.plus.com...
My current tin-opener has a big fat turning handle. Pity the darn cutting disc is so tempramental.
And why are they so difficult to clean? Grotty bits get caught in narrow scrungy places.
Stupid thing. Designed by people with dish washers, I suppose,
A soak in warm deterrent and attack with a scrubbing-brush sorts that.
These days, about the only cans we have are baked beans, with ring-pull lids, which have often left me with the can in one hand and the ring in the other. Obviously, I can't get to grips with this new-fangled technology.
And five minutes later a swollen finger? I hates them ring-pulls, I do.
And another thing!! Can't cut off the bottom of half the cans (made for shelf stackibility) so can't stamp them flat for easy recycling.
Our Bin Department doesn't want them squished
I must admit I have a regular stock of things in cans like squished tomatoes and a ratat.. rattat... ratatt...
Rat au gratin?
mixed veg in tomato sauce
Oh.
and was that the postman I heard?
Was it? Mine brought my pension this morning. Ruined the bank holiday weekend, not knowing whether I could go to the next village's fete and plunder their excellent white heffalump stall on Monday.
kidley beans, chick peas... Tuna!
And anyway, it was a rite-of-passage when I was young to attack a can with a lethal can-opener and thereby learn how to be careful.
And also not to leave a successfully opened can of goodness on the kitchen table lest the dog snarfs the contents. From memory, it was pilchards in tomato sauce.
Cat in this case.
Talking of which the new people over the road, who live next door to mummy (her mummy), have gone off on holiday with the parents and left the cat in the house. It's driving me potty. She is sitting in the front bedroom window and prowls from end to end. Pictures of People">Lady came today to trim the grass, but neither me nor her-n-door have seen anyone else come to see to the moggy.
Roam alone...
The family, on the whole are very casual when it comes to their animals. Others might dimly remember my saga with Leo, a black kitten that turned up on the flat roof outside this window, one summer, and went meep-meeep for hours on end. As it was a kitten DaftCat treated it with caution.
I let it in.... It belted to DC's bowl and hoovered up the food in a winking, then swam in the milk, drank it up, staggered off, clambered on a chair and went to sleep.
Gloooom!! It's moved in!!
It was a VERY friendly, pretty kitten. Black and fluffy. House trained, the lot. It had a collar. Leo, and a telephone number in Milton Keynes. 8(((
I did all the usual rounds, post cards in shops, telephoned all the vets and naturally called M Keynes on a regular basis. Nobody was there. We decided they must have moved to this area and the kitten got lost.
I redoubled my search efforts moving further afield.
A week passed...
Knock on the door and there was the young lad from over the road 'I understand you have our cat, Leo?'
'Uh? Yes! He's upstairs, I think... hold on...'
I returned with Leo but the lad had gone. He came over with a carrier bag full if food. 'It's my sister's cat. He has four kitten sachets a day, water and don;t let him on the furniture...'
And back home went he.
As this twit went to college and sometimes didn't return until midnight I decided leo could stay put..
Boggle!
They were, very small sachets of food.
Leo had been sharing DC's food and was plumper and happier and slept on the bed, played on the sofa and ran up and down the curtains and the tree in the back garden and got stuck. He tormented DC who never bashed back just hid, and he took over all the mousy toys. He was a happy cat.
A week passed....
Knock on the door and there was the poison dwarf herself. 'Can I have Leo now, my daughter's going back to Milton Keynes in a couple of minutes....' I produced Leo
Not so much as a thank you...
Not from any of them.
About six months later the posty asked me if I would hold a parcel for them. A bloody HUGE parcel, hardy pick-upable.
I dropped a note through their letter box.
Nothing happened.
The end of the next day (wednesday) I hauled it over the road and the man said 'Oh, it's for my son, who is on holiday. I thought it might as well stay there until he came back...' On Saturday...
Siiiiigh.
They have a terribly modern and posh (and larger) kitchen. You never see anyone cooking in it though. Ten minutes is the longest anyone stays in there... ever...
They spend far longer than that tarting up their caravan and taking up half the road.
We don't likes em, we don't.
Why ever not? They don't sound like much trouble.
Her-n-door comes round here to glower out of my bedroom widow and has asked me to put the lace curtains back up so she can use the binoculars again. She is sure 'they' have sneaked new fitted wardrobes into the spare room.
Jinglebells Drive. You can;t beat it.
When I were a lad...
Across the road lived the Harries - Harrieses? We were sure they had a telescope in the dormer window of their attic room.
Every time anyone came or went, the curtains twitched, which kept them pretty-much a-flutter, as there were usually six of us and an au pair in the place, and my mother was a physioterrorist in private practice.
For long story reasons, at college I had sculpted a huge statue of a super-obese (nude) woman who sagged all over and whose every feature cascaded in folds.
One night we parked her on the seat of a friend's double-adult sidecar, and he went to work with it there for a week - in those days, plastic windows tended to get yellow and cloudy...
On the following Sunday morning it appeared, mushroom-like, on our front lawn, and the Harries' curtain had delerium tremens.
--
Rusty
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