Purveyor of Bollocks to the Crowned Heads of Europe
Friday, 8 July 2016
Very interesting underwear
I think we all deserve a little weekend break from Brexit and Chilcot, so here's some good news about candlesticks:
Good news: I sold the latest collection of 8 (above) for £650 to someone who lives in Lyon, France.
Bad news: He hasn't paid for them yet. I am guessing that he is having problems pushing his way through the football supporters to get to the bank. That would be my excuse.
I am supposed to be teaching a young mason modelling (no, not THAT sort of modelling and not THAT sort of mason, John) today, but I have a bad back. Back problems are a rarity for me, especially considering how I have spent the last 40 years and the weight of stone and marble. I am tall, but a lot of my height is in my legs. I suppose you could say that I am tall from the waist down.
In the days when banks had desks and chairs - the days when people used paper - I turned away from a woman in front of me to sneeze, and my back went into spasm with crippling flashes of pain. It took me numerous attempts to stand up over about 20 minutes, to go to the tills and ask them to call me a taxi.
The teller did not say, "You're a taxi!" as I might have done, but did comment that they were wondering what I was trying to do at the desk for so long. When the taxi arrived, it took me to my car which was parked only a mile or so away, and I took so long in lowering myself into the driving seat whilst hanging onto the door frame, that a couple of young mothers who were close by considered calling the police to tell them that a very drunk man was about to drive a car. I know this, because they told me. They had spent the same sort of time wondering what I was doing as the bank teller had.
I drove the mile home and had to call in a young lady to tie my shoelaces for about a week afterwards.
This was the first time I had ever had back problems, so I needed to reassure myself that the pain was muscular, and not vertebrae. Someone recommended a reasonably priced chiropractor, so I called him up. I asked him to come round to my place, and he said that he didn't make home visits, so I booked an appointment with him.
I drove to his practice, and found that it was situated in a basement at the bottom of a flight of extremely steep and narrow stone steps which were covered in very slippery, green algae. He waited at the bottom the three minutes it took for me to get down, his meter running the whole time.
The first half hour was spent by me lying face down with a heat-lamp on my back, giving me plenty of time to scan the walls for decoration. There was a certificate which stated that he had been qualified as a chiropractor for about 2 months. He was in his late 50s, so I asked what he had done before that. He had been a salesman, he said, then he started a bit of massage. There was something slightly creepy about him, as I had been warned by my friend.
All he said was, "You have very strong shoulders," and I said that it was them which had got me into this mess in the first place. Then after I had dressed and paid, he began to book me in for 4 more sessions. When I refused them, he seemed a little concerned for my welfare, but he need not have worried - I was better within a few days as I had predicted to him.
About a year later, H.I. went to the same man. She got the same treatment, but all he said to her before trying to book her in for 4 more sessions was, "You have very interesting underwear."