I'm sure the intentions are very kind but who on earth wants a lot of tobacco stained books?
I don't understand this conversation at all.
I'm sure the intentions are very kind but who on earth wants a lot of tobacco stained books?
I had to give away a beautiful art book I'd picked up at a car boot because the stench of old tobacco just ruined it every time it was opened.I'm sure the intentions are very kind but who on earth wants a lot of tobacco stained books?
I don't understand this conversation at all.
Christ she means synonymous surely. Eponymous is a Greek word as well.Late night jackseeker activity afoot:
This is an old article, people may have already seen it. Can't link it for some reason so have copied
'11 months ago today, I turned up to work late, sleepless, an incoherent babbling wreck chewed up by an 18 month landmark court trial and with bright copper dye fading from my wiry, tousled mania of hair. I left my walking stick in the lobby, and limped in to work…to find a hand thrust towards me in a polite gesture of welcome, a smile, a curt hello. She introduced herself. I apologised seven times for my lateness and my pulled-from-a-car-wreck appearance. She was firm and professional, and she smiled at me again. And I felt that selfsame car wreck collide with my solar plexus and toss me down a rabbithole of giddy headspinning highs and that soaring, almost nauseatingly disorienting feeling of time stopping and slowing and turning on its head. I stumbled away, a new crush ablaze across my cheeks and in every tip of my fingers, burning coiled springs in the soles of my feet, a song whispering in the cold, grey, slumbering chamber of my strange little heart. And then I went home, and did what any self respecting 21st century romantic heroine would do; I followed her on Twitter.
Fast forward a few weeks and, having established that my paramour was mutually curious, I found myself standing frozen in my kitchen, petrified, with a wooden spoon in my hand, wondering what to cook for her imminent arrival. I settled on this, and it has become eponymous, to me, with falling in love. It is not flashy, nor expensive; no grand gestures required. It requires a little patience, but very simple ingredients. It is homely, comforting, nourishing, the culinary equivalent of a soft warm body wrapped around your own. It delights, it satisfies, both firm and tender, messy and irreverent, hot and saline and sticky and sweet, and so much more than the sum of its parts.
It took her a month to pluck up the courage to tell me she doesn’t like pasta, but I love her regardless.'
The thing that's always bothered me about that, is the leaving of her walking stick. Everyone I've known who required such things has taken it with them.Late night jackseeker activity afoot:
This is an old article, people may have already seen it. Can't link it for some reason so have copied
'11 months ago today, I turned up to work late, sleepless, an incoherent babbling wreck chewed up by an 18 month landmark court trial and with bright copper dye fading from my wiry, tousled mania of hair. I left my walking stick in the lobby, and limped in to work…to find a hand thrust towards me in a polite gesture of welcome, a smile, a curt hello. She introduced herself. I apologised seven times for my lateness and my pulled-from-a-car-wreck appearance. She was firm and professional, and she smiled at me again. And I felt that selfsame car wreck collide with my solar plexus and toss me down a rabbithole of giddy headspinning highs and that soaring, almost nauseatingly disorienting feeling of time stopping and slowing and turning on its head. I stumbled away, a new crush ablaze across my cheeks and in every tip of my fingers, burning coiled springs in the soles of my feet, a song whispering in the cold, grey, slumbering chamber of my strange little heart. And then I went home, and did what any self respecting 21st century romantic heroine would do; I followed her on Twitter.
Fast forward a few weeks and, having established that my paramour was mutually curious, I found myself standing frozen in my kitchen, petrified, with a wooden spoon in my hand, wondering what to cook for her imminent arrival. I settled on this, and it has become eponymous, to me, with falling in love. It is not flashy, nor expensive; no grand gestures required. It requires a little patience, but very simple ingredients. It is homely, comforting, nourishing, the culinary equivalent of a soft warm body wrapped around your own. It delights, it satisfies, both firm and tender, messy and irreverent, hot and saline and sticky and sweet, and so much more than the sum of its parts.
It took her a month to pluck up the courage to tell me she doesn’t like pasta, but I love her regardless.'
What job was she going to?Late night jackseeker activity afoot:
This is an old article, people may have already seen it. Can't link it for some reason so have copied
'11 months ago today, I turned up to work late, sleepless, an incoherent babbling wreck chewed up by an 18 month landmark court trial and with bright copper dye fading from my wiry, tousled mania of hair. I left my walking stick in the lobby, and limped in to work…to find a hand thrust towards me in a polite gesture of welcome, a smile, a curt hello. She introduced herself. I apologised seven times for my lateness and my pulled-from-a-car-wreck appearance. She was firm and professional, and she smiled at me again. And I felt that selfsame car wreck collide with my solar plexus and toss me down a rabbithole of giddy headspinning highs and that soaring, almost nauseatingly disorienting feeling of time stopping and slowing and turning on its head. I stumbled away, a new crush ablaze across my cheeks and in every tip of my fingers, burning coiled springs in the soles of my feet, a song whispering in the cold, grey, slumbering chamber of my strange little heart. And then I went home, and did what any self respecting 21st century romantic heroine would do; I followed her on Twitter.
Fast forward a few weeks and, having established that my paramour was mutually curious, I found myself standing frozen in my kitchen, petrified, with a wooden spoon in my hand, wondering what to cook for her imminent arrival. I settled on this, and it has become eponymous, to me, with falling in love. It is not flashy, nor expensive; no grand gestures required. It requires a little patience, but very simple ingredients. It is homely, comforting, nourishing, the culinary equivalent of a soft warm body wrapped around your own. It delights, it satisfies, both firm and tender, messy and irreverent, hot and saline and sticky and sweet, and so much more than the sum of its parts.
It took her a month to pluck up the courage to tell me she doesn’t like pasta, but I love her regardless.'
I feel in my strange little heart that it was Woman’s Hour.What job was she going to?
And her 'strange little heart'
That page can't be found, has it been taken down since you wrote your post?Late night jackseeker activity afoot:
This is an old article, people may have already seen it. Can't link it for some reason so have copied
'11 months ago today, I turned up to work late, sleepless, an incoherent babbling wreck chewed up by an 18 month landmark court trial and with bright copper dye fading from my wiry, tousled mania of hair. I left my walking stick in the lobby, and limped in to work…to find a hand thrust towards me in a polite gesture of welcome, a smile, a curt hello. She introduced herself. I apologised seven times for my lateness and my pulled-from-a-car-wreck appearance. She was firm and professional, and she smiled at me again. And I felt that selfsame car wreck collide with my solar plexus and toss me down a rabbithole of giddy headspinning highs and that soaring, almost nauseatingly disorienting feeling of time stopping and slowing and turning on its head. I stumbled away, a new crush ablaze across my cheeks and in every tip of my fingers, burning coiled springs in the soles of my feet, a song whispering in the cold, grey, slumbering chamber of my strange little heart. And then I went home, and did what any self respecting 21st century romantic heroine would do; I followed her on Twitter.
Fast forward a few weeks and, having established that my paramour was mutually curious, I found myself standing frozen in my kitchen, petrified, with a wooden spoon in my hand, wondering what to cook for her imminent arrival. I settled on this, and it has become eponymous, to me, with falling in love. It is not flashy, nor expensive; no grand gestures required. It requires a little patience, but very simple ingredients. It is homely, comforting, nourishing, the culinary equivalent of a soft warm body wrapped around your own. It delights, it satisfies, both firm and tender, messy and irreverent, hot and saline and sticky and sweet, and so much more than the sum of its parts.
It took her a month to pluck up the courage to tell me she doesn’t like pasta, but I love her regardless.'
Someone tried to donate a vibrator to a charity shop near me once. I found out the hard way - was coming home drunk with my mate and spotted donations spilling out onto the road. Naturally we took a closer look, and I found aforementioned sex toy lying there in its packaging. Grabbed ahold of the plastic for a laugh (god knows why) and it fell open - it had clearly been well used.... Needless to say I decided to wash my hands very thoroughly that night...It reminds me of a programme I watched with Mary Portas when she was doing up charity shops. She visited one and looked through a bag of donations which consisted of obviously worn unwashed pants.
Now tobacco stained books aren't quite the same I know. But disadvantaged people don't always want to be used as a dumping ground for tat nobody else wants.
“Arrived at work”I feel in my strange little heart that it was Woman’s Hour.
‘Hot and saline and sticky and sweet’. No comment.
Like twit, the writer uses words that he really doesn't understand. He'd be better off talking about strict triage rather than military. Military triage means that you patch up the walking wounded first and get them back to battle; the ones that are likely to die anyway are left until the end. It's the opposite way round to normal triage. We were talking about Rick Jolly earlier in the thread: at Ajax Bay, a young army officer called Robert Lawrence was brought in with half his brain blown away. He was left outside to quietly die. When every other casualty had been dealt with, they were surprised to find him still alive so went ahead with operating on him. He survived. From Wiki: Lawrence lost 43% of his brain and was paralysed down one side of his body. He was awarded the Military Cross on 11 October 1982. He was discharged from the army on 14 November 1983. He spent a year in a wheelchair and doctors predicted he would never walk again. He eventually regained most movement although with a slight limp, a paralysed left arm, involuntary muscle contractions and posttraumatic stress disorder.Saw this and thought of Jack and her unending saga of CT scans:
Hospital wards are filling up again – with fakers
How do I know that Britain’s Covid crisis is over? The fakers are back. The hypochondriacs, the psychosomatics, the pseudo-fitters, the attention-seekers and the lonely. They’ve started to return to the acute medical ward where I work. They’ve been gone so long I actually almost missed them...www.spectator.co.uk
At least she’s munching on her own (or a generous benefactor’s) dollar this time.
“I settled on this, and it has become eponymous, to me, with falling in love.“Late night jackseeker activity afoot:
This is an old article, people may have already seen it. Can't link it for some reason so have copied
'11 months ago today, I turned up to work late, sleepless, an incoherent babbling wreck chewed up by an 18 month landmark court trial and with bright copper dye fading from my wiry, tousled mania of hair. I left my walking stick in the lobby, and limped in to work…to find a hand thrust towards me in a polite gesture of welcome, a smile, a curt hello. She introduced herself. I apologised seven times for my lateness and my pulled-from-a-car-wreck appearance. She was firm and professional, and she smiled at me again. And I felt that selfsame car wreck collide with my solar plexus and toss me down a rabbithole of giddy headspinning highs and that soaring, almost nauseatingly disorienting feeling of time stopping and slowing and turning on its head. I stumbled away, a new crush ablaze across my cheeks and in every tip of my fingers, burning coiled springs in the soles of my feet, a song whispering in the cold, grey, slumbering chamber of my strange little heart. And then I went home, and did what any self respecting 21st century romantic heroine would do; I followed her on Twitter.
Fast forward a few weeks and, having established that my paramour was mutually curious, I found myself standing frozen in my kitchen, petrified, with a wooden spoon in my hand, wondering what to cook for her imminent arrival. I settled on this, and it has become eponymous, to me, with falling in love. It is not flashy, nor expensive; no grand gestures required. It requires a little patience, but very simple ingredients. It is homely, comforting, nourishing, the culinary equivalent of a soft warm body wrapped around your own. It delights, it satisfies, both firm and tender, messy and irreverent, hot and saline and sticky and sweet, and so much more than the sum of its parts.
It took her a month to pluck up the courage to tell me she doesn’t like pasta, but I love her regardless.'
Military round the edges triage?Like twit, the writer uses words that he really doesn't understand. He'd be better off talking about strict triage rather than military. Military triage means that you patch up the walking wounded first and get them back to battle; the ones that are likely to die anyway are left until the end. It's the opposite way round to normal triage. We were talking about Rick Jolly earlier in the thread: at Ajax Bay, a young army officer called Robert Lawrence was brought in with half his brain blown away. He was left outside to quietly die. When every other casualty had been dealt with, they were surprised to find him still alive so went ahead with operating on him. He survived. From Wiki: Lawrence lost 43% of his brain and was paralysed down one side of his body. He was awarded the Military Cross on 11 October 1982. He was discharged from the army on 14 November 1983. He spent a year in a wheelchair and doctors predicted he would never walk again. He eventually regained most movement although with a slight limp, a paralysed left arm, involuntary muscle contractions and posttraumatic stress disorder.