Profile for johnsto:
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- a member for 19 years, 9 months and 25 days
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- has posted 15 stories and 0 replies on question of the week
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» Crazy Relatives
My slightly crazy Polish granddad...
...did a number of crazy things during his life, many in his last 10 or so years, until he died this past Christmas at the age of 85. A few of these I only heard recently from my parents:
1. When he first moved into this country during WWII, he married my grandma, bought a plot of land in Essex, and built his own bungalow, garage and various farmhouses. When they got electricity, he developed a strange fascination with it, insisting on replacing all the plugs and sockets of his tools as he didn't like the ones they came with. This resulted in many broken drills, saws and things that my dad would usually end up having to mend for him...
...it turned out ALL the wall sockets in his garage had the wires the wrong way around, requiring him to rewire all the plugs on his new tools. This explained why most of his electricals didn't even have a fuse in them - he had removed them all to make them work.
2. He bought an electric chainsaw to cut down the bushes and through small bits of firewood. He loved it, but one day it 'broke' and so he gave it to my dad to fix it...
...my dad took one look and decided to never give it back. Grandad had removed nearly every single safety feature from the saw because his old hands (one of which was missing a finger he knocked off) and fading mind couldn't operate it. On trying to remove the final safety feature- the on/off switch (he decided the only on/off switch it should need was at the wall socket) - he had broken it.
3. A few years ago my mum was on her way to visit him and my grandma. As she drove up the driveway, she saw him about 10ft up a ladder, cutting a stray branch off a tree over the road. She stopped, and leapt out of the car over to him, begging him to come down...
...he had been cutting off the branch his ladder was resting on.
R.I.P. Grandad.
(Fri 6th Jul 2007, 16:40, More)
My slightly crazy Polish granddad...
...did a number of crazy things during his life, many in his last 10 or so years, until he died this past Christmas at the age of 85. A few of these I only heard recently from my parents:
1. When he first moved into this country during WWII, he married my grandma, bought a plot of land in Essex, and built his own bungalow, garage and various farmhouses. When they got electricity, he developed a strange fascination with it, insisting on replacing all the plugs and sockets of his tools as he didn't like the ones they came with. This resulted in many broken drills, saws and things that my dad would usually end up having to mend for him...
...it turned out ALL the wall sockets in his garage had the wires the wrong way around, requiring him to rewire all the plugs on his new tools. This explained why most of his electricals didn't even have a fuse in them - he had removed them all to make them work.
2. He bought an electric chainsaw to cut down the bushes and through small bits of firewood. He loved it, but one day it 'broke' and so he gave it to my dad to fix it...
...my dad took one look and decided to never give it back. Grandad had removed nearly every single safety feature from the saw because his old hands (one of which was missing a finger he knocked off) and fading mind couldn't operate it. On trying to remove the final safety feature- the on/off switch (he decided the only on/off switch it should need was at the wall socket) - he had broken it.
3. A few years ago my mum was on her way to visit him and my grandma. As she drove up the driveway, she saw him about 10ft up a ladder, cutting a stray branch off a tree over the road. She stopped, and leapt out of the car over to him, begging him to come down...
...he had been cutting off the branch his ladder was resting on.
R.I.P. Grandad.
(Fri 6th Jul 2007, 16:40, More)
» Petty Sabotage
Two little stories from my childhood
1. My brother once had chips. I wanted them. I forcibly salted them. He didn't like salt. He cried. Mummy told me off. I then tried to make it better by pouring pepper on the chips to cancel out the salt (I thought they were opposites, like yin and yang, ant and dec). I didn't like pepper. I failed. No one got chips.
2. In a car, back from a fair. Neighbour has a bar of soap. I'm crying because I had nothing. Naturally, I take a bite out of it. I can still taste it to this day.
(Wed 4th May 2005, 17:15, More)
Two little stories from my childhood
1. My brother once had chips. I wanted them. I forcibly salted them. He didn't like salt. He cried. Mummy told me off. I then tried to make it better by pouring pepper on the chips to cancel out the salt (I thought they were opposites, like yin and yang, ant and dec). I didn't like pepper. I failed. No one got chips.
2. In a car, back from a fair. Neighbour has a bar of soap. I'm crying because I had nothing. Naturally, I take a bite out of it. I can still taste it to this day.
(Wed 4th May 2005, 17:15, More)
» Pet Stories
Our little yappy terrier, Sammy
If we shout 'squirrels!' when he's sleeping, he'll immediately run through the conservatory and out into the garden, yapping up at the trees as loud as he can. He'll then come back in, back to where he was, and go straight back to sleep.
It's a particularly entertaining trick to do when it's pouring down with rain...
(Fri 8th Jun 2007, 13:18, More)
Our little yappy terrier, Sammy
If we shout 'squirrels!' when he's sleeping, he'll immediately run through the conservatory and out into the garden, yapping up at the trees as loud as he can. He'll then come back in, back to where he was, and go straight back to sleep.
It's a particularly entertaining trick to do when it's pouring down with rain...
(Fri 8th Jun 2007, 13:18, More)
» Accidentally Erotic
opticians too...
Had a trainee optician give me an eye test, in the presence of my normal optician. She was dressed smart, except for the very short skirt and boots, but nothing too outlandish - it's only an opticians after all. I figured the least I could do was act keen and polite and help her.
She studied my eye. She moved closer. And closer. Her thigh against mine... those opticians' stools are so small... a few seconds later, her forehead was resting against mine as she studied my right eye, and my left. And my right again. I could do nothing but stay still in the bowl-like headrest as her forehead pressed against mine, her nose tapped my nose and her knees got closer to the happy bits...
At this point the real optician asked her how my eyes were and the experience came to an abrupt halt. On the plus side, despite staring at a computer screen all day for weeks on end had improved considerably! I and her were most happy, but the optician was less believing...
(Thu 2nd Feb 2006, 18:41, More)
opticians too...
Had a trainee optician give me an eye test, in the presence of my normal optician. She was dressed smart, except for the very short skirt and boots, but nothing too outlandish - it's only an opticians after all. I figured the least I could do was act keen and polite and help her.
She studied my eye. She moved closer. And closer. Her thigh against mine... those opticians' stools are so small... a few seconds later, her forehead was resting against mine as she studied my right eye, and my left. And my right again. I could do nothing but stay still in the bowl-like headrest as her forehead pressed against mine, her nose tapped my nose and her knees got closer to the happy bits...
At this point the real optician asked her how my eyes were and the experience came to an abrupt halt. On the plus side, despite staring at a computer screen all day for weeks on end had improved considerably! I and her were most happy, but the optician was less believing...
(Thu 2nd Feb 2006, 18:41, More)
» Vomit Pt2
My messiest...
Was in my final year of University. Everything was done. Exams over, coursework complete, all that remained was to wait for term to 'officially' finish, so cleaning and leaving could commence.
One of my housemates had helped organise a student night out for medics, and as a reward, he was allowed to take home a box of white wine that had remained at the end of the evening (surprising, I know.) He kindly offered it to the house, allowing us to dive in and drink as we wished. It was free, after all, and besides he much preferred the taste of proper blokey beer to the fine, sophisiticated taste of cheap white.
Hence, me and one of my flatmates started at it - from 6pm to 9pm we drank about 2.5 bottles each, and were quite merry. My speech was slurred, but laying down most of the evening had masked how inebriated I was. Alas, I felt good enough, and had an early night at 10pm or so.
4.00am. I awake feeling most... unwell. "It's only a hangover" I thought, thereby keeping everything inside. And I did.
4.30am. I feel increasingly nauseous and dizzy, but just about hold on.
5.00am. "Maybe I should go to the bathroom, feel like I might throw up any minute... No, David! Stay strong! It's all in your mind!" I assured myself, and so I stayed in bed.
5.15am. The heavens open. Without even a chance of making it to the bathroom - or even out of my room - I lean over from my bed and throw up all over the floor, fortunately avoiding my trainers.
5.16am. I throw up over the floor again, and in my trainers.
5.17am. I let my bed covers know how I feel.
5.18am. I see a patch of carpet! No longer...
5.19am. Take that, bedside table!
And so on.
Come 8.00am, I was feeling much better - and headed downstairs to see how my flatmate was.
His room was pristine! I couldn't believe it. He'd maintained his dignity. Not a drop of vomit anywhere. How did he contain 2.5 bottles of cheap wine? Did he throw up at all? Or did he make it to the bathroom in time?
"How did you keep it all in?"
"I didn't", he said, pointing to the washbasin in his room, which was filled to the brim with vomit, the plughole blocked by it. "Is your washbasin full too?"
Of course, the washbasin in my room - why didn't I think of that?!
"Not at all - it's pristine!", I replied (much to his amazement), before heading back to my room, sponge in hand, ready to spend the next 4 hours removing vomit from carpet, clothes, shoes, electronics, bed covers, sheets... everything within splashing distance.
I no longer class white wine as 'sophisticated' and make a mental note of all available sinks and washbasins prior to drinking the stuff.
(Wed 13th Jan 2010, 12:49, More)
My messiest...
Was in my final year of University. Everything was done. Exams over, coursework complete, all that remained was to wait for term to 'officially' finish, so cleaning and leaving could commence.
One of my housemates had helped organise a student night out for medics, and as a reward, he was allowed to take home a box of white wine that had remained at the end of the evening (surprising, I know.) He kindly offered it to the house, allowing us to dive in and drink as we wished. It was free, after all, and besides he much preferred the taste of proper blokey beer to the fine, sophisiticated taste of cheap white.
Hence, me and one of my flatmates started at it - from 6pm to 9pm we drank about 2.5 bottles each, and were quite merry. My speech was slurred, but laying down most of the evening had masked how inebriated I was. Alas, I felt good enough, and had an early night at 10pm or so.
4.00am. I awake feeling most... unwell. "It's only a hangover" I thought, thereby keeping everything inside. And I did.
4.30am. I feel increasingly nauseous and dizzy, but just about hold on.
5.00am. "Maybe I should go to the bathroom, feel like I might throw up any minute... No, David! Stay strong! It's all in your mind!" I assured myself, and so I stayed in bed.
5.15am. The heavens open. Without even a chance of making it to the bathroom - or even out of my room - I lean over from my bed and throw up all over the floor, fortunately avoiding my trainers.
5.16am. I throw up over the floor again, and in my trainers.
5.17am. I let my bed covers know how I feel.
5.18am. I see a patch of carpet! No longer...
5.19am. Take that, bedside table!
And so on.
Come 8.00am, I was feeling much better - and headed downstairs to see how my flatmate was.
His room was pristine! I couldn't believe it. He'd maintained his dignity. Not a drop of vomit anywhere. How did he contain 2.5 bottles of cheap wine? Did he throw up at all? Or did he make it to the bathroom in time?
"How did you keep it all in?"
"I didn't", he said, pointing to the washbasin in his room, which was filled to the brim with vomit, the plughole blocked by it. "Is your washbasin full too?"
Of course, the washbasin in my room - why didn't I think of that?!
"Not at all - it's pristine!", I replied (much to his amazement), before heading back to my room, sponge in hand, ready to spend the next 4 hours removing vomit from carpet, clothes, shoes, electronics, bed covers, sheets... everything within splashing distance.
I no longer class white wine as 'sophisticated' and make a mental note of all available sinks and washbasins prior to drinking the stuff.
(Wed 13th Jan 2010, 12:49, More)