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51
« Last post by Rebbonk on March 19, 2021, 07:55:28 pm »
She's quite obedient: when she wants to be.  The cat is definitely the boss, though.
52
« Last post by Pearlh on March 19, 2021, 02:26:24 pm »
................. 
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« Last post by Pearlh on March 19, 2021, 02:24:28 pm »
She looks very obedient , Rebbonk. Butter wouldn't melt....
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« Last post by Clare on March 18, 2021, 02:31:17 pm »
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« Last post by Rebbonk on March 18, 2021, 01:17:08 am »
I used to use this as an introductory ice-breaker on a few managerial courses that I used to run.
FATHER TIME
I saw the old thief, Father Time,
Come hurling down the road,
He had a sack upon his back;
Lost minutes were his load.
He opened it and showed to me,
Not minutes, but a host,
Of years, decades a century
Or more of minutes lost.
"I want to buy a year," I said,
"And I shall pay you well."
"If this Earth's mould were finest gold,
to you I would not sell.
For I have minutes stolen from Kings,
From Milton, Shakespeare and Bach,
How could you buy such precious things,
Your common gold is trash?"
He tied his sack and said,
"Farewell, young man, I have got my fee."
For while I tried to make him sell,
He stole an hour from me.
Harvey Scott
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« Last post by Rebbonk on March 18, 2021, 01:11:52 am »
Death in the Operating Theatre
It was three o'clock in the afternoon; the operating theatre was in full swing. The body on the table was that of a young man involved in a road accident less than twenty minutes ago. He'd taken a terrible blow to the head as a speeding car hit him. The ambulance crew had been swift, getting him to the hospital and rushing him through accident and emergency. He was now being operated on by the best team in the hospital.
Dr Carvelle, the surgeon was working busily away; Dr Chauhan, the anaesthetist keeping track of the vital signs, making slight adjustments as time went by. Johnson had come with the patient from the ambulance and was hovering around the operating theatre trying to dodge out of everyone's way.
"Pulse rate increasing," announced Dr Chauhan. Carvelle looked up at the monitors, cursed and went back to his task. The automatic alarms sounded on the life support; measures were taken to try to save the patient.
"Give it up guys," said Johnson from the back of the operating theatre. "He's gone." Nobody answered, keeping up their attempts at resuscitation. Adrenaline was administered, but the body remained lifeless, no vital signs present.
For the next twenty minutes techniques were tried to bring the body back to life. Nothing was successful. Every few minutes, Johnson would urge them to stop. Nobody reacted to his requests; they were professionals and had undertaken an oath to preserve life and if they could possibly save a life, they would.
"OK enough," said Dr Carvelle. "He's gone; we can't do any more here." He removed his mask and rubbed his eyes.
"About time too," Johnson said. Carvelle ignored him saying, "Thank you all for your efforts here; I'm sorry but he was too far gone. The accident caused a brain haemorrhage; we couldn't stop it, but at least we tried. We tried hard."
The anaesthetist shut down the now silent support systems, the nurses tidied away the various instruments.
"Before you go, can we agree on the time of death please?" asked Carvelle.
"I made it three forty-five," said Chauhan.
"OK, I'll complete the records with that," said the weary surgeon.
"You damned idiots," yelled Johnson at the top of his voice. "Why didn't you listen to me? Why didn't you let go? I told you it was hopeless, you've spent time and effort quite needlessly, you should have let him go without all of this trauma and fuss."
Nobody took any notice of him; they carried on with their tasks. Losing a patient on the operating table was never easy; they all knew that there'd be an inquest; each hoped that they'd followed procedures correctly. It was a worry they could do without.
Just as the nurse was pulling a sheet over the body, Johnson looked down into the face of the deceased. "Goodbye old son," he said, "You were a good body to me; sorry I let you get so damaged at the end."
57
« Last post by Rebbonk on March 18, 2021, 01:04:16 am »
A Picture Speaks a Thousand Words
I was very young when my father died. In actual fact I was only two, coming up to three. I barely remember him; I certainly couldn't put a face to him. He was a pilot and was killed in a training accident. His aircraft, a Sea Venom I believe, crashed into the sea; neither he nor the aircraft were ever recovered. There was an inquest, but nothing was proved, and mother hardly ever spoke of him again.
So I grew up without a proper father figure really. Mum didn't remarry and didn't have any men friends. Mind you, from what you read in the papers maybe this was for the best. So the only male influence I had in my life was mum's brother Jimmy, and as I was Jimmy's only niece we had a great time. He used to take me everywhere with him when I was younger. He was a lorry driver and I went to all sorts of places from Scotland down to Cornwall. We'd stop here and there, eating ice cream or chips; he really was very good to me.
Jimmy even gave me away when I married. Sadly my husband died early and we didn't have children, but life goes on. Uncle Jimmy was always there for me. He helped me through.
Then, last month my mother died. She had been ill for a while, and bravely fought on, but in the end, I must confess that it was a blessing to see her go.
After the funeral, I had to clear her house. There was nothing there that I wanted, so I asked Uncle Jimmy if he wanted anything. He didn't but offered to come and help me clear the house anyway. Jimmy's good like that, always willing to help. We cleared the living room first, progressing slowly up the house until we did the last bedroom.
"Ok, then. Finished?" I asked Jimmy.
"What about the attic?" Jimmy replied. So up I went. Well, I couldn't send Jimmy, not at his age. There were a couple of boxes up there, not much, just small coloured cardboard boxes. I handed them down to Jimmy, then climbed down myself.
Jimmy had opened the boxes and was surrounded by photographs. He waved one excitedly in his hand.
"Hey, look at this," he cried. "It's a photograph of your third birthday party."
I took the offered photograph and looked at it with interest. It was the usual family group. Mum, Jimmy, Grandma, Grandpa, some of my friends who I hadn't seen for years. We were all standing under a homemade banner that declared to the world that Jemma was three today.
"Who's this Jimmy?" I asked pointing to a man standing at the back that I didn't recognise.
Jimmy fished out his glasses and took the photograph over to the window for a better look.
"Good Grief," he exclaimed. "This can't be right."
"What's up, Uncle Jimmy?" I asked.
"This man, here in the picture, he's your father!"
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« Last post by Rebbonk on March 18, 2021, 12:01:01 am »
Meet Freya. A 3 1/ 2 years old Belgian Malinois, otherwise known as a Maligator. 
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« Last post by Rebbonk on March 17, 2021, 11:54:38 pm »
Soda bread.
500g plain white flour (You can add in wholemeal if you like)
1tsp bicarb soda
1 tsp salt
350 ml buttermilk (or soured milk or even acidified water)
Mix dry ingredients
Add liquid and quickly mix to a dough.
DO NOT knead!
Form into a round loaf, slash the top with a knife to form 4 quadrants
Pop into a preheated oven at 180C for 30 minutes
Invert and cook for a further 10 minutes
Cool on a wire rack.
Enjoy.
You can also add dried fruit to this recipe, mix in before adding the liquid.
I modified this today by substituting 100g of flour for 50g of semolina and 50g of porridge oats. - Made a nice texture and was very tasty.
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« Last post by Rebbonk on March 17, 2021, 11:51:03 pm »
Meanwhile in a parallel universe: “Oh for God’s sake! Where are all these extra single socks coming from?”
Pages: 1 ... 4 5 [6] 7 8 ... 10
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