tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34352391313618970682024-03-19T09:27:51.524+00:00Bomber's BlogAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13632804502099543351noreply@blogger.comBlogger15125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3435239131361897068.post-36084629080027525112013-11-03T12:54:00.000+00:002013-11-03T12:54:06.022+00:00You Shouldn't Laugh... Should You?My family has decided that my mum has to live in a care home.<div>
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Dementia has finally caught up with her, after a twelve year chase. She doesn't talk much these days, when she does, it is often just to repeat the last words of a sentence that we've said to her. Although she understands what we say to her, often chuckles when we say or do something funny.</div>
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She's always had a tremendous sense of humour, which is a benefit, coming from her family. There is a huge catalogue of amusing stories, which still get reeled out at family occasions.</div>
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Stories like that of her father, Henry, running off to Scotland with a woman because he was convinced that he was Scottish and she was wealthy. Both turned out to be untrue, although there are photographs of Henry dressed in full kilt and regalia alongside me as a baby. No one can remember the name of the lady in question, she will be forever referred to as "that woman".</div>
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Another time her sister, Gladys, rode her bicycle along the M25 against the flow of traffic, in the dark because she had go confused riding home from visiting her husband in hospital. When the police picked her up and asked her why she hadn't turned around after realising her mistake, she replied that as far as she was aware it was illegal to do a U-turn on the motorway.</div>
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Mum, herself, is no stranger to the odd amusing incident, having helped in the removal of Georgie Cockle's finger whilst chopping fire wood. Or sitting in a crematorium chapel through the funeral of a stranger because she had arrived too early (uncharacteristically) and only realising that she didn't recognise anyone after she had sat down and the mourners had all arrived.</div>
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Although there has been so much laughter, there has been a fair share of tragedy. Losing her mother when she was just eleven years old and caring for her father as she grew up, when she should have been enjoying her youth must have been a struggle. As must have been bringing up two young children after the untimely death of her husband after just ten years of marriage. Remarriage and the combination of two young families was also not without pain.</div>
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But she powered through it all, keeping the family together as only she could have done. She had her Christian faith to lean on, but in many ways this added to her workload as she spent much of her time caring for elderly and vulnerable people that came her way through various organisations. In fact she had cared for one very disabled lady, still doing her weekly shopping when her own mind was in quite significant decay.</div>
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So I can't look upon her being in a home now as a tragedy. More as payment in kind to a lady who has touched, amused and lightened the lives of so many people. </div>
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Therefore I feel justified in seeing amusement in finding my mum wearing two pairs of glasses because she has picked up someone elses. Or finding myself sitting on her lap in her wheelchair because we have overbalanced as I was trying to sit her down.</div>
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She'll never stop making me smile.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13632804502099543351noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3435239131361897068.post-28183225356401432352013-10-18T21:50:00.001+01:002013-10-18T21:53:35.745+01:00Making a DifferenceIt was a Friday afternoon, the end of a mentally tough week. I don't know why it had been so difficult, nothing particularly unusual had come my way. My head was just full of unwelcome thoughts, mainly centering around a very tragic tale of a student who had taken his own life after getting poor exam results.<br />
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I cannot begin to understand what drives a young person to such desperate measures. Moreover as a parent myself, I can't even start to imagine what this poor young man's parents must have gone through. Life is tough, life is unfair and yet we still heap pressure upon ourselves and our friends and family. It's an old adage, but no parent should ever bury their children.<br />
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So with a mind in turmoil, I left work a couple of hours early. I had my camera in my car and wanted to take advantage of the late afternoon sun. I decided to head out to Windsor Great Park, it's always been a favourite spot of mine, a vast area of carefully managed parkland on the very edge of London. Once part of a huge Norman hunting forest, it now covers an area of nearly 5,000 acres. A small corner of this parkland is enclosed again as a deer park, and it was to here that I went.<br />
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Passing through the gate into the deer park felt like I was leaving the world and all of it's trials and tribulations temporarily behind. The road on which I walked was deserted, it seemed that aside from a few young stags lying in the long grass, I was alone... completely alone.<br />
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My mind, started to wander. I looked at the thick banks of trees, wondering. If someone were to decide that here was the place to commit a final act, how long would it be until they were found? What were the chances of being disturbed? How easy would it be?<br />
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These thoughts and others came to me in rapid succession, flying in and out of my head darting and shouting as vividly as the parakeets that flew in and out of the trees around me.<br />
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On top of Snow Hill is a statue of King George III mounted on a charger. It is at the top of a straight road which leads down to Windsor Castle just over 2.5 miles away. From this vantage point one can clearly see the skyscrapers of London's financial district. Closer in Wembley Stadium and Heathrow Airport.<br />
I sat on the rocks at the base of the statue and looked over the city. Watching as aeroplanes spewed out of the airport, taking hundreds of unseen people to all corners of the planet. Far away there were 6.5 million people bustling around, not one of them with the slightest idea that someone was sitting, watching, wondering about them.<br />
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Then I was no longer alone. There was another man there, with a camera, shooting the scene down to the castle as the shadows from the trees lining The Long Walk gently stretched their fingers out across the manicured grass. We got chatting as we both took photographs. We spoke about the city and the life within, the beauty and ugliness that made is interesting. It transpired that my companion lives there. Not far from the most recently opened skyscraper, The Shard.This lead onto a discussion about our favourite and least favourite buildings in the city.<br />
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As we sat, two strangers with a common interest a young lady walked up to near where we sat with a German Shepherd dog. They sat a little distance from us, both looking out at the view. It struck me that the dog sat upright and alert, looking out as if to protect it's mistress from harm. The low sun shone through it's groomed coat creating a light around it, almost like a halo. I had to leave, but as I stood, I called out to the girl to ask her if she wouldn't mind if I took a photograph of her and the dog, explaining that the light from behind and the alertness of the dog made a good shot. She said she was happy for me to and turned to me with a smile. I fired off a couple of shots and then lowered my camera to thank her. At that moment, she let her guard down and gave the dog a hug, laughing, "Hey, Max, we're going to be famous." I took another shot.<br />
Thanking the girl and saying goodbye to my unknown companion, I headed down the hill, back the way I had come.<br />
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Walking back to my car, I realised that I was in a very different frame of mind to the one that I had arrived in. It was due simply to those two people. One who shared a bit of himself with me, who gave me an insight into his life, who took me at face value. The other, who happily responded to an unusual request, but appeared flattered and amused to do so.<br />
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It's not the greatest photo I've ever taken, but it is one of my favourites. Why..? Because it's the moment that I made a difference.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmkaCbdf41MDEfG6aIzjYDuRUlHbK7uFbENr2QDwOe9f7AUGg8eHl_BYwZCvunhZmLblsP7QTRGIaWWSqhExK6Q0muDTP1QBfdVb0_eR09l_2sk5fQSQU6Ufy21zQPeNCbqiu343jakqg/s1600/img0187.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmkaCbdf41MDEfG6aIzjYDuRUlHbK7uFbENr2QDwOe9f7AUGg8eHl_BYwZCvunhZmLblsP7QTRGIaWWSqhExK6Q0muDTP1QBfdVb0_eR09l_2sk5fQSQU6Ufy21zQPeNCbqiu343jakqg/s1600/img0187.JPG" height="425" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13632804502099543351noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3435239131361897068.post-12218341350954545222013-09-08T10:24:00.001+01:002013-09-08T10:24:36.308+01:00Ghosts<div style="margin: 0 0 10px 0; padding: 0; font-size: 0.8em; line-height: 1.6em;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/43775311@N02/9661432661/" title="Ghosts"><img src="http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7406/9661432661_c649a3ca9a.jpg" alt="Ghosts by Paul_M_Harris" /></a><br/><span style="margin: 0;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/43775311@N02/9661432661/">Ghosts</a>, a photo by <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/43775311@N02/">Paul_M_Harris</a> on Flickr.</span></div><p>The slow shutter speed gives this shot an eerie quality that I like.</p>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13632804502099543351noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3435239131361897068.post-27937431773584738682013-09-07T12:39:00.001+01:002013-09-07T12:43:58.339+01:00STOP.<div class="MsoNormal">
Hello, it really has been a very long time hasn’t it?</div>
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I’ve been off doing things with a camera you see, <a href="http://flic.kr/ps/EFAKs">http://flic.kr/ps/EFAKs</a>
, but like all things it has to co-exist with life and responsibilities. It’s a
fun distraction and challenges me to find new and interesting things. Sometimes
inspiration is in short supply, other times inspiration is available in buckets
full and time is unavailable.</div>
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We have to juggle so much in our lives that so often
something has to give. Sometimes we get so hung up on our careers, family,
friends etc that we miss what’s right under our noses. We have to take time to
stop and take a look around. Find the Ferris Bueller within... <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=R-P6p86px6U">http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=R-P6p86px6U</a></div>
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Well OK, we can’t really do all of that, because that was
Hollywood and more than a little bit silly. But who at some time hasn’t wished
that they could just take time out and do something just for themselves.</div>
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I used to work with a guy who a couple of times a year would
take himself off for a couple of days, telling his family that he was
travelling for work. Actually he would be in a bed and breakfast on the coast
and spend the days sitting on the beach, drinking coffee, reading the paper or
having a quiet beer. Terribly dishonest, but I can see why he did it.</div>
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For many years now, I’ve lived with depression. I don’t hide
it, but it does tend to be a conversation killer, so I don’t mention it much.
It is referred to as a black dog, a faithful constant companion. Over the years
it has given me cause to stop and have a look at myself on many occasions. I
recognise the need to take time out for myself, have a “me” day. But I have
found that it doesn’t always mean having to take a day out.</div>
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We can all afford a few minutes each day to stop and have a
look around. If we take just those few moments to be with ourselves and think
about what we are doing and where we are going, perhaps we’ll get a clear
picture.</div>
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We don’t need to run around wrecking our best mate’s dad’s
Ferrari or dancing in a parade in Manhattan...</div>
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...but it would be fun, wouldn’t it?</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13632804502099543351noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3435239131361897068.post-55329723267391940112010-03-31T13:25:00.001+01:002010-04-07T13:26:03.369+01:00Brief Sunshine<p><a href="http://lh4.ggpht.com/_KsqSi0CPPTQ/S7M_RWgnb2I/AAAAAAAAEmY/pFhAOJSyukU/s1600-h/Photo0264%5B4%5D.jpg"><img style="border-right-width: 0px; display: inline; border-top-width: 0px; border-bottom-width: 0px; margin-left: 0px; border-left-width: 0px; margin-right: 0px" title="Photo0264" border="0" alt="Photo0264" align="left" src="http://lh5.ggpht.com/_KsqSi0CPPTQ/S7M_So6v5EI/AAAAAAAAEmc/DaeqkuNVsDM/Photo0264_thumb%5B2%5D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="264" height="199" /></a> Woking has had it’s fair share of famous residents over the years. George Bernard Shaw lived in the town for a short time as did H.G. Wells who wrote War of the Worlds at his house on Maybury Hill. Several local landmarks are mentioned in the story.</p> <p>Not to mention musical legends the likes of Paul Weller, Rick Parfitt and Petula Clarke!</p> <p>Perhaps, though, Woking’s most famous, or infamous resident was King Henry VIII. His original residence, alongside the River Wey has long since succumbed to decay and neglect. However the palace built as a replacement on the bank of the nearby Hoe Stream remains intact and in use as a preparatory school. On the hill opposite the palace a beacon was built to serve as a landmark so that travellers to the palace could find it with ease.</p> <p>This beacon stood, albeit in various states of repair or decay, until a storm demolished it in the early 19<sup>th</sup> century. Now, at the site of this octagonal tower is a health club and “pay and play” golf course. The road to the club house runs parallel to the original road known as Monument Hill, which linked the palace with Pyrford Place a couple of miles away.</p> <p>As I drove Angela down Monument Hill towards the old palace I realised that the view I was enjoying was one not so very different from the one that The King and his courtiers would have seen as they returned home hundreds of years ago.</p> <p>The wedding that I had just finished hadn’t been particularly different to many others, a brief jaunt from Woking to Weybridge  registry office and then on to The Hoebridge Golf Club. Rhonda was accompanied by her two grown up daughters to the ceremony to marry Paul. </p> <p>To be fair the weather had not been kind to her, but as we arrived at the reception the sun finally broke through the clouds.</p> <p>It was those last couple of minutes that made it special, in a vintage Rolls Royce with the sun shining, looking at the English countryside.</p> <p>Maybe I take too much for granted…</p> Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13632804502099543351noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3435239131361897068.post-18819198735432297162010-03-22T20:15:00.001+00:002010-03-22T20:15:51.025+00:00Living for Now<p>We don’t have a future, we don’t have a past. All we really have is this very moment.</p> <p>I had lunch yesterday with friends who’s life has been turned upside down. A year or so ago Sid was told that he had an inoperable brain tumour. He and his wife have two young daughters who are a delight to be with and an absolute credit to them. All four of them are living with the certainty that one day everything will change.</p> <p>Nine years ago, Sid found himself out of work and after trying to find new employment, he settled into the life of house-husband. Without doubt a tough time for him to cope with. Yet I don’t think that I can remember him ever complaining. He made the absolute best of the cards that he had been dealt. Throwing himself into domestic chores, childcare and decorating the family home.</p> <p>He became a dinner “lady” at his daughters’ school, much to the delight and amusement of the whole family.</p> <p>Quite an inspiration…</p> <p> </p> <p>Now, sadly, he’s not at all well. Family roles have had to reverse once more. Carer becomes cared for. But he’s still there, there are sparks of his humour that even his disabilities cannot contain. He has trouble communicating, and yet his determination makes sure that he gets his message across.</p> <p>I’m quite sure that they have all, at sometime or another wondered “why us” and quite rightly so. Yet they tackle their problems with dignity and honesty. They speak openly about the trials that they have faced and the times that they know are to come.</p> <p>Still an inspiration…</p> <p> </p> <p>So, to explain the opening line. When you started reading this, there were no guarantees that you would reach the end. Only the expectation. But you are reading these words right now. This is truly all we have, right now.</p> <p>Sure we can and should make plans for the future, and we should learn from the past. But we have to live in the present. Why worry about what might happen, when we don’t know when that will be? Why become hung up on what has happened, when we can’t change anything?</p> <p>When it did happen, that was now. When it does happen, that will be now also.</p> <p> </p> <p>I take my hat off, not only to Sid, but to Vic and Keith too.</p> Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13632804502099543351noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3435239131361897068.post-76256938875956980612009-07-18T09:31:00.001+01:002009-07-18T09:49:25.728+01:00History, Heroes and Hats<p>Farnham, a small town on the border of Surrey and Hampshire is a place steeped in history. It is an old market town on the A31 Winchester - Guildford Road. There is a delightful mix of architecture both ancient and modern. Above the town sits the 12th Century Farnham Castle Keep, with magnificent views across the North Downs. In the town itself a plethora of pubs and streets names stand as testament to it's brewing past. </p> <p> <br />Farnham was also home to Mike Hawthorn who in 1958 became the first British Formula One World Champion. Sadly in the winter of the following year he died when he crashed his Jaguar on the Guildford by-pass. One of the first on the scene was his friend, race team owner, Rob Walker. (<a href="http://www.mike-hawthorn.org.uk">www.mike-hawthorn.org.uk</a>) <br />There are many homages to Mike in and around Farnham, including a street named after him and a car sales garage bearing his name. </p> <p> <br />I had a wedding there last week. First I had to take the Bride Groom and his two best men to the church. The place in question is located behind a supermarket, at the back of a large public car park. Having dropped them off, I had to high tail it to the other side of the town to collect the bridesmaids before returning to the same house to collect the bride. </p> <p> <br />There's something very special about driving a vintage Rolls Royce through the streets of such an historic town, particularly one with such motoring heritage. Certainly we turned many heads on our six trips along the high street over the course of the day. </p> <p> <br />As I dropped the bride at the church, I was informed by the photographer that after the ceremony there would be a wait of around an hour so that a small reception could be held for those not moving on to the Wedding Breakfast. Turning this to my advantage, I took some time to stroll through the lanes and explore this beautiful town. </p> <p> <br />To my delight I happened upon an outdoor pursuits clothing shop, and spent a while in there trying on all manner of hats. While I was looking at my reflection in a mirror wearing a Panama Fedora at a jaunty angle a sales man appeared, which startled me somewhat. To his credit he just checked with me that I had all I wanted and disappeared upstairs to his customer who was busy trying out all manner of fly-fishing gear. </p> <p> <br />After returning to the Royce I whiled away a little more time watching the Formula One Qualifying sessions from Germany on my laptop. Something of a juxstaposition in a 1934 car. In fact when someone stuck their head in the window and asked if wireless networking was an option in that model of car, I was briefly floored. </p> <p> <br />Finally we left for the reception at The Farnham House Hotel. I could have driven a short route, but elected instead to go through the town one last time. The sun shone, people waved and clapped at the happy couple. I hope it made a special moment for them. </p> <p> <br />On my way home I drove along the Guildford by-pass. As often happens when I drive that section of road my mind wandered to the events of 22nd January 1959. Mike Hawthorn died eight years before I was born, but, thanks to the people of Farnham and old racers his story and reputation will live on.</p> Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13632804502099543351noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3435239131361897068.post-15049865707183056542009-07-12T08:55:00.003+01:002009-07-12T09:04:05.851+01:00Well Did You Ever?<p>Some stories you just can't make up...</p> <p></p> <p>I read the jobsheet in my email inbox with some delight. The pick up was a 10 minute drive from our base, the church was just 5 minutes from the pick up and the reception was just another 10 to 15 minutes from the church. Even the prospect of having to do two runs to the church was of no consequence with this job.</p> <p></p> <p>However, still mindful of how my last "easy" job had worked out (see "Working the Problem" below) I wasn't counting my chickens just yet.</p> <p>I had been given a very detailed itinerary, detailing my movements. The first item was to wait while photographs were taken of the bridal party outside their flat and then take "The Boys" to the church.</p> <p></p> <p>Had the skies darkened and lightening bolts split trees while I looked on at the group assembled for photographs I wouldn't have been in the slightest bit surprised.</p> <p> The chief bridesmaid wore a dress of black lace, replete with long gloves and black patent boots. The "boys", who were clearly sons of the bride, wore full morning suits and carried canes. Their long black hair flowed from beneath their tops hats like the manes of Victorian funeral horses. I helped "The Boys" into the car and introduced myself to them, their lack of English finalised my suspicion that they are not of these shores. </p> <p></p> <p>Having dropped "The Boys" at the church and returned for the Bride, who I had deduced was their mother. She was ready to go and immediately jumped into the car with her attendants. This was unfortunately against the carefully laid out itinerary, meaning that we now had over 15 minutes to complete a 3 minute journey. Now, a 1935 Rolls Royce will never break a land speed record, but there is a limit to how slowly it can be made to go.</p> <p></p> <p>We rocked up at the church with still 5 minutes to go. I opened the rear door to explain that there was no rush, to be greeted by three fairly keen ladies coming my way with considerable momentum. I did the honourable thing and stood back to allow them to continue their charge.</p> <p></p> While my charges were busy exchanging their vows I tidied the back of the car, paying particular attention to the squashed cigarette ends that had been trodden in on the bottom of the ladies shoes. <p></p> <p>Having tidied the car, I set about opening the package containing the champagne glasses that the bride and groom had bought specially for the occasion. I turned out that I was the first person to open the box and the glasses were coated in paper dust with a liberal sprinkling of polystyrene balls. Still, the champagne sparkled well in them.</p> <p></p> <p>No sooner had I achieved this than a couple came running out of the church laughing themselves almost to the point of hysteria. They asked me if I knew where they could find something to mend the grooms trousers. Apparently as he had knelt down at the altar, it had been accompanied by the sound of his trousers splitting from seam to seam. Of course it's not the done thing to derive any form of enjoyment from such a situation. So I turned my back before smiling.</p> <p>Finally away to the reception, the groom caught my attention by gently tapping on the glass partition between us with the silver tip of his walking cane. To be honest, referring to me as "My Man" was pretty much the final straw!</p> <p></p> <p>I'm quite sure that they had the time of their lives, goodness knows they had put plenty of effort into it all. I just can't help but wonder if they really did have Ozzy Osbourne booked to sing at the reception.</p> <p></p> <p>As I write this I am sitting in 'Angela' outside another church, waiting for another happy couple to begin their new lives together.</p> <p></p> Watch this space...Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13632804502099543351noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3435239131361897068.post-679872709376051342009-06-28T23:05:00.002+01:002009-06-29T19:49:59.888+01:00Happy Days.<p>I sat in heavy traffic on the A3 Guildford by-pass, pondering the rights and wrongs of school proms. It has to be said that in my opinion it is one of the better "traditions" that we have been given by our cousins across the pond. </p><p>This was my first school prom and I was driving Emily to pick up a young man and his date and take them to a golf club for a black tie dinner and dance.</p><p>I was greeted at the lad's house by his mum, dad, granny, younger brother and younger sister. All excitedly waiting to see him off on his big night. I am guessing, but I think that this was probably a first for them too.</p><p>As we drove we exchanged small talk, where was he going to college? What was he going to study? Does he have a part time job? Was the young lady that we were going to pick up his girlfriend or just a friend?</p><p>I glanced in the rear view mirror and saw that he was blushing, "No," he said self consciously, "She's not my girlfriend... yet. Hopefully she will be by the end of the night."</p><p>During the drive from the young lady's house to the golf club, the conversation in the back of the car was light hearted and amiable. Until, that is, we got close to the venue.</p><p>I glanced in my mirror, catching the girl's eye. She looked terrified. To break the tension, I suggested that I should drive past the road leading to the venue for about half a mile and then come back, so that they may have a moment longer to compose themselves. I told them, as I do with brides on their big day, that when we pulled up at the the golf club, I would get out and open the door. When they were both ready, I would stand aside to help them out of the car. There would be no need to rush.</p><p>I have to admit that I was not ready for the sight that greeted me as I turned the final corner of the driveway. There must have been at least one hundred school kids, all dressed in tuxedos or ball gowns mingling around beneath the entrance canopy. To swell the throng even more, many of their parents stood by watching as their offspring prepared to celebrate the beginning of the rest of their lives.</p><p>I lined the little 1934 Rolls Royce up behind two enormous open topped Cadillacs to await my turn to offload my charges. The silence from the back was broken by a small voice, "What if I trip up?"</p><p>Needless to say, she didn't trip. We took our time, just as we had agreed. Cameras flashed, people cheered and waved and two very proud mums looked on.</p><p>Did they end the evening as a couple? Well, I'll probably never know. Unless I get booked to drive for their wedding!</p>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13632804502099543351noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3435239131361897068.post-41665896558758981442009-06-15T12:34:00.001+01:002009-06-15T12:38:41.901+01:00Remember The ElephantIn the early 1970's my parents arranged a family camping holiday for us to <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Exmouth</span> in Devon.Nearby to our campsite was the Sandy Bay Holiday Park. It's still there, although one would hope in a much more modernised form. The amusement area had many exciting attractions for a young boy. A walk along a wooded footpath, lit at night with many colours, Smuggler's Walk, they called it. Little coin operated cars, with real working headlights, that could be driven around a small oval circuit. However, the wonder of all wonders was a very large, mechanical elephant.<br /><br />The creator of this magnificent beast would sit in a seat just behind the head, at the controls. For a price one could sit in seats arranged, pannier style on it's back the elephant would then "walk" around the amusement area.<br /><br />I don't recall ever having a ride on it. Perhaps I was too small, although I can't believe that at that time the lunacy of health and safety would have been an issue. Perhaps it was too expensive. Who knows the reasons, what I am sure is that had I been lucky enough, I would remember.<br /><br />The following year, we returned to Sandy Bay. I can remember the <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">disappointment</span> to find that the elephant was standing <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">forlorn</span>, unused and somewhat the worse for wear in the same place that I had last seen it.<br /><br />Enquiries were made. It transpired that the man who <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">had</span> made the elephant had sadly passed away during the year that we had been absent. I also turned out that he was the only person who knew how to operate the machine. I should imagine that it's fate was pretty much sealed at that time and it would have been consigned to the scrap heap.<br /><br />It is human nature to try to accumulate knowledge. To some, knowledge is power. However, it would seem that knowledge that isn't shared is wasted.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13632804502099543351noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3435239131361897068.post-47238633468282499152009-06-10T12:42:00.004+01:002009-06-10T13:18:35.058+01:00Rant.This week’s blog was going to be about the wedding that I drove last Saturday. However when I looked over the first draft I realised that it didn’t make compulsive reading.<br /><br />Certainly the tale of the young lady who appeared in a doorway topless except for a small t-shirt held in front of her would please some readers. Others may be interested in the antics of the somewhat eccentric lady tottering about on bright red stiletto shoes quaffing champagne and becoming increasingly animated as each minute passed.<br /><br />But really are they stories for this place?<br /><br />More worthy of comment I feel is the appalling lack of service that one gets in the UK at the moment.<br /><br />I rant, I sometimes wish that I didn’t, but I do. I feel the injustice when I am given shoddy service by people who should know better.<br />I am fed up with being told by a salesperson or supplier that they’ll get back to me and knowing that the chances of it really happening are perilously close to zero.<br /><br />A friend of mine is trying to buy a house. We all know that it is supposed to be one of the most stressful things that one can undertake. So why then, does she have to be the one chasing up estate agents? Why is her vendor’s estate agent so seemingly incompetent that she has to explain to him how to handle the problems?<br /><br />Daily we are told of the Global Economic Downturn. Thousands of people are being put out of work or under the threat of redundancy. Yet some of those who are fortunate enough to be in gainful employment are so disrespectful to their peers that they cannot be bothered to do their job even to a moderately good standard.<br /><br />It’s easy to grumble and let’s face it we all enjoy a good old moan from time to time. I have decided though that now I must change my tack. No longer will I complain to an organisation for shoddy service. If they cannot see that their lack of professionalism is damaging to them they deserve to fail. Why should I try to stop them?<br /><br />What I will do, however, is to praise those who do provide exactly the service that they claim. This way I hope that in time their good name and reputation will make an impact.<br /><br />Rant over…Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13632804502099543351noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3435239131361897068.post-18660980342076745512009-06-03T22:03:00.009+01:002009-06-10T08:21:15.412+01:00Working the Problem<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjncWruz2LaVop2w6SnwAFeVPWAiiXt2GIC2kmGQBo5eg2JziqNZH4pOU9pAFjrUgd_QWHZr_BSPAQFgD2fZvSi76XlhEkiYv2Vjzmmxls95j1aB_xhyk1_hqRaSidTA3pn30CifRhZzhE/s1600-h/Photo0070-1.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5343212907417866898" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 150px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjncWruz2LaVop2w6SnwAFeVPWAiiXt2GIC2kmGQBo5eg2JziqNZH4pOU9pAFjrUgd_QWHZr_BSPAQFgD2fZvSi76XlhEkiYv2Vjzmmxls95j1aB_xhyk1_hqRaSidTA3pn30CifRhZzhE/s200/Photo0070-1.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div><span style="font-family:arial;">It was going to be a walk in the park. Collect the Rolls Royce Silver Cloud, Anne. Pick up the bride, just a 10 minute drive away. Another 10 minutes to the church and then off to the reception at Great Fosters in <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Egham</span> (see "Flowers, Mangoes and a Car for The Queen" - Bomber's Stories). </span></div><br /><div><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">However, all the best laid plans and all that... </span></div><br /><div><span style="font-family:arial;">I arrived to pick up the car to find another driver, Chris, pacing up and down with a concerned look. Due to an unfortunate error the second driver on his job was unavailable, leaving him in the position of needing to be able to drive two cars! After a couple of phone calls, it was arranged that I would drive the bridesmaids car for him and my nice easy job would be handed over to someone else. </span></div><br /><div><span style="font-family:arial;">My first stroke of luck came when I looked at Chris's job sheet and found that the church was one that I had been to a couple of weeks ago in a pretty little village called <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Wonersh</span> (</span><a href="http://www.wonershparish.org/wonersh/index.html"><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:78%;">http://www.wonershparish.org/wonersh/index.html</span></a><span style="font-family:arial;">) and the Bride's house was just around the corner from it. The downside was that we had to get across <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Guildford</span>, which on a Saturday lunch time is no mean feat. </span></div><br /><div><span style="font-family:arial;">Thankfully many road users are sympathetic to a large shiny car with white ribbons and will often yield at road junctions for us. </span></div><br /><div><span style="font-family:arial;">We got the wedding party from the house to the church without any further traumas, and took ourselves into <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Wonersh</span> village for a cool drink, before planning the rest of the afternoon.<br />Another look at Chris' <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">jobsheet</span> told us that the reception was to be held at The South Lodge Hotel in Lower <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">Beeding</span>, West Sussex. (</span><a href="http://www.southlodgehotel.co.uk/EXCLUSIVE_HOTELS/the_hotel.aspx"><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:78%;">http://www.southlodgehotel.co.uk/EXCLUSIVE_HOTELS/the_hotel.aspx</span></a><span style="font-family:arial;">)<br /><br />Now this is where the pressure really started to mount, because I had not expected to be doing this job, I wasn't carrying my sat-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">nav</span> and my local atlas doesn't cover East Sussex. Thankfully Chris had the foresight to print out driving instructions before he left home. This meant that I could leave them lying on the seat next to me and read them as I drove, easier said than done, but much better than getting lost.<br /><br />Given that it a was a glorious day, I decided that I would drive the journey to South Lodge with the roof down. However I hadn't accounted for the mother of the bride's hat, which with a little breeze beneath it soon threatened to take to the skies. It was safely recovered and placed carefully in the front of the car with me. Soon after doing this my driving instructions fell the floor, leaving me once again in the lap of the gods. I tried to continue as best I could, but decided that after completely circumnavigating a roundabout I was better off coming clean and admitting that I was in a bit of a lather.<br /><br />It has to be said that I owed a huge debt of gratitude to the little Irish lady who unfazed sat in the back of the car, confidently giving me instructions. Once we had safely arrived at South Lodge and I had apologised for my lack of professionalism, it transpired that the only person who had been to the hotel before was the bride's mother, and she wasn't entirely sure where it was. Her earlier confidence had been complete bluster.<br /><br />I can only assume that the Blarney Stone has a lipstick mark from her kiss on it...</span></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13632804502099543351noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3435239131361897068.post-15354387248018624012009-05-05T17:39:00.002+01:002009-05-06T07:27:44.754+01:00Old Ladies and Chancers<div class="MsoBodyText" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 14.15pt"><span style="font-size:130%;"></span><img style="WIDTH: 322px; HEIGHT: 226px" src="http://docs.google.com/File?id=dgjzcjh_5fpwg6rg4_b" /><br /><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: left"><span style="font-family:courier new;"></span> </div></div><div class="MsoBodyText" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 14.15pt"><span style="font-family:courier new;"></span></div><div class="MsoBodyText" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 14.15pt"><span style="font-family:arial;">Hampton Court Palace was taken over from The Order of St John by Cardinal Wolsey in 1514. Over the following seven years it was rebuilt to be the finest palace in England at a cost of two hundred thousand gold crowns. </span></div><div class="MsoBodyText" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 14.15pt"><span style="font-family:arial;">King Henry VIII first stayed there in 1525 and by all accounts it was noted by him that the Palace and gardens on the bank of The River Thames was considerably grander than his residence in Whitehall, London.</span></div><div class="MsoBodyText" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 14.15pt"><span style="font-family:arial;">By 1529 Wolsey had fallen from grace and the King took the palace for his own. Within six months he had started a rebuilding program which would see great expansion of the property, leaving almost no trace of the Cardinal's original building. </span></div><p class="MsoBodyText" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 14.15pt"><span style="font-family:arial;">In 1838 Queen Victoria completed extensive renovation works and opened the Palace to the public. By this time it was no longer used as a Royal residence. In 1952 the building was granted Grade 1 listing. Throughout the Twentieth Century the Palace housed fifty "grace and favour" apartments and it was an elderly resident of one of these who caused a major fire in 1986. Subsequent restoration work was completed in 1990. </span></p><div class="MsoBodyText" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 14.15pt" align="center"><span style="font-family:arial;">***************************************</span></div><div class="MsoBodyText" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 14.15pt"><span style="font-family:arial;">Sitting in front of this magnificent Tudor building, under a sky of bright blue with just a few clouds seemingly just added for interest, Grace looked every inch the grand dame that she is. </span></div><p class="MsoBodyText" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 14.15pt"><span style="font-family:arial;">Grace is a 1957 Rolls Royce Silver Dawn. Only eighteen hundred of these cars were ever made. Twelve hundred of them were built as right hand drive variants for the American market, so that makes her just one of six hundred cars. </span></p><p class="MsoBodyText" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 14.15pt"><span style="font-family:arial;">The bridal party had posed for all of their photographs and left for their reception in The Garden Room. Before I left I took the opportunity to take a couple of photos myself. After all it’s not often that one has an opportunity to capture two such majestic sights in one frame. </span></p><p class="MsoBodyText" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 14.15pt"><span style="font-family:arial;">As I walked back to the car I was stopped by a gentleman with his wife and two daughters. </span></p><p class="MsoBodyText" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 14.15pt"><span style="font-family:arial;">“How much for a lift home?” he asked. </span></p><p class="MsoBodyText" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 14.15pt"><span style="font-family:arial;">Now I have to admit I was somewhat taken aback by his opening gambit. </span></p><p class="MsoBodyText" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 14.15pt"><span style="font-family:arial;">“I’m sorry?” </span></p><p class="MsoBodyText" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 14.15pt"><span style="font-family:arial;">“How much for a lift home to Walton from here?” </span></p><p class="MsoBodyText" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 14.15pt"><span style="font-family:arial;">“Sir, this is not a taxi you know…” </span></p><p class="MsoBodyText" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 14.15pt"><span style="font-family:arial;">“Everyone’s got a price.” </span></p><p class="MsoBodyText" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 14.15pt"><span style="font-family:arial;">“Not I.” </span></p><p class="MsoBodyText" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 14.15pt"><span style="font-family:arial;">Realising he was getting no where the gentleman changed his tack and started to ask questions about the car. Finally he brought the subject back around to money again. </span></p><p class="MsoBodyText" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 14.15pt"><span style="font-family:arial;">“So how much is it worth? No, no don’t tell me let me guess…” </span></p><p class="MsoBodyText" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 14.15pt"><span style="font-family:arial;">I have to admit that my patience was wearing a little thin by this time. It had been a reasonably long job and in my black suit, I was becoming uncomfortably warm. My downfall was that I simply cannot resist a verbal jousting match and he had just thrown down the gauntlet. </span></p><p class="MsoBodyText" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 14.15pt"><span style="font-family:arial;">I let him continue. </span></p><p class="MsoBodyText" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 14.15pt"><span style="font-family:arial;">“Six hundred.” </span></p><p class="MsoBodyText" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 14.15pt"><span style="font-family:arial;">“Six hundred?” I repeated. “Six hundred thousand pounds. You are joking aren’t you?” </span></p><p class="MsoBodyText" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 14.15pt"><span style="font-family:arial;">His face fell, his daughters looked uncomfortable. I had a lot of sympathy for them. Their father was beginning to make himself look a fool. The elder of the two asked if she may have a look inside. I opened the rear door for her, I couldn’t help but feel that she just wanted to hide. </span></p><p class="MsoBodyText" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 14.15pt"><span style="font-family:arial;">“Do you really think that a car worth that much money would be put to work as a wedding car?” </span></p><p class="MsoBodyText" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 14.15pt"><span style="font-family:arial;">“How much then?” He countered.</span></p><p class="MsoBodyText" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 14.15pt"><span style="font-family:arial;">“I’m not going to be so vulgar and discuss the value of the car, let’s just say that you were out by a considerable margin.” </span></p><p class="MsoBodyText" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 14.15pt"><span style="font-family:arial;">Briefly crestfallen he tried again, “So how much for a lift back to Walton?” </span></p><p class="MsoBodyText" style="MARGIN: 0cm 0cm 14.15pt"><span style="font-family:arial;">I took my leave… </span></p>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13632804502099543351noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3435239131361897068.post-39209700855301706972009-03-27T12:33:00.000+00:002009-05-05T21:17:11.177+01:00Decisions<span style="font-family:arial;">Arthur West sailed on the Titanic with his wife and two young daughters.<br /><br />Now, we all know the story of what happened on that fateful night in April 1912. What we didn’t know until just recently was that, after Mrs West and their two daughters had been safely placed in Lifeboat No. 10, Arthur retuned to their cabin and prepared a Thermos flask of warm milk.<br /><br />Returning to the deck he found that the life boat had been lowered. So he climbed down the ropes into it and handed the flask to his wife. Then, and this is the real story, he said his farewells to his young family and climbed back up the ropes to the stricken ship. Here he waited with the hundreds of other lost souls for his end. By all accounts, after he had climbed back onto the ship, two other men, an Italian and a Turk, climbed down into the boat and hid beneath some ladies skirts to prevent being ejected by stewards. Apparently they had to be asked to desist from lighting cigarettes for fear that the skirts would ignite.<br /><br />So often it takes only a split second to make a life changing choice. Arthur West could have also hidden in the boat. One can only assume that he desperately wanted to stay with his family and start the new life that they had planned. One also assumes that it was the gentleman within that prevented him doing just that, or indeed finding his way into another boat to save himself.<br /><br />The decision that those three men took that night must have taken just a few moments, and yet their repercussions lasted beyond a lifetime.<br /><br />This is it in a nutshell. We don’t know what’s going to happen even one second in the future and yet we have hopes and dreams that we need to protect. When Arthur West made his choice he must have known that not only was his life going to end, but those of his wife and children would never be the same again. Yet he still did what was considered to be the right thing. He died an honourable man.<br /><br />So what of the stow-aways? Were they dishonourable because they had saved their own lives? Maybe they had families waiting for them. Perhaps they lived on to become successful men who made the lives of others better with their subsequent endeavours. Would they have lived the remainder of their lives thanking their lucky stars, or would they have regretted behaving the way they did?<br /><br />We are, none of us, fortune tellers. Yet there is pressure on us to make the correct decision every time. Perhaps there is no right and no wrong, just differing consequences. We make choices every day that could completely change the path of our lives. Often without giving it a second thought. Very rarely do we have to make the kind of choice that Arthur West had to. I wonder if I would have the courage and tenacity that he did.</span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13632804502099543351noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3435239131361897068.post-87622578243706481672009-03-21T20:52:00.000+00:002009-03-21T20:59:03.318+00:00Hypnosis to Halitosis<div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgT56DzOKQv_9ne-ARU-hpL14ctb2N3CYpXQ12MBueM-U1yLbRjyGRsK5yHkJVkE4lw_tVYJaS_8Fx8POhBkp0R1Es7WTPetYzQfwff4HGljX-qhKaI07LWBEuGyoaMMJ2r4dxGXKY_mMI/s1600-h/SP_A0124.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5315747536490962498" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 150px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgT56DzOKQv_9ne-ARU-hpL14ctb2N3CYpXQ12MBueM-U1yLbRjyGRsK5yHkJVkE4lw_tVYJaS_8Fx8POhBkp0R1Es7WTPetYzQfwff4HGljX-qhKaI07LWBEuGyoaMMJ2r4dxGXKY_mMI/s200/SP_A0124.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />
<br /><div><font face="arial">It’s a funny old world. There are personal dramas and sagas played out on a daily basis. Each person has his or her own play in which they alone are the key role.<br /><br />The new week started, as the last one ended, with a visit to a hypnotist.<br /><br />With the Formula One world gearing up for another tour of the globe, equipment, cars and people were all being mustered to be packed and freighted. This inevitably resulted in some fairly stressful and often fraught times. Thus I decided that in order to help me work “smarter” a quick reset of the brain wouldn’t go amiss.<br /><br />An interesting journey where I re-learnt to relax and focus. Much to my surprise, I discovered that one of the biggest is, no – <em>was</em> procrastination. So that was dealt with straight away!<br /><br />Monday brought with it the shocking news that a supplier in America had taken his own life. Quite what happened that day, I am sure no one will ever fully know, much less understand.<br />Whenever I had spoken with Jamie on the telephone, the conversations would always be lengthy and punctuated by much laughter. A great, larger than life character who never failed to be positive.<br />It became obvious during subsequent phone calls and emails with his work “family” that he will be sorely missed by those who knew him better than I ever would. I am sure that wherever his soul now is, it is a much brighter place for having him there.<br /><br />The latter half of the week was dominated not only with the shipment of McLaren Racing’s small part of the Formula One circus to Australia, but also by the retirement of one of the most interesting and amusing people that I have had the privilege of knowing.<br />Tyler Alexander, native of Massachusetts, USA came to England in the early 1960’s and subsequently became involved in the motor racing activities of a young New Zealander, Bruce McLaren. His professional life has been well documented, as have many of the hundreds of stunning photographs that he has taken on his amazing journey.<br /><br />On Friday 20th March 2009, Tyler “TJA” Alexander, Ray “Tex” Rowe and Neil “Tinker” Trundle were awarded fellowships of McLaren. A new initiative to honour those who have helped McLaren to become one of the most successful motor racing teams of all times. Between the three men there are in excess of 125 years of motor racing passion and legend.<br /><br />The weekend brought for me the first wedding chauffeuring job of the year. Driving “Anne” a 1959 Rolls Royce Silver Cloud I took a young lady called Natasha to a picturesque little church in Effingham, Surrey where she was married to Phil. The party then retired to the stunning Horsley Towers Hotel for the wedding breakfast and celebrations. A large part of life’s great adventure for this young couple. A tiny piece of the huge jigsaw that makes every hour of every day of the world that we all share.<br /><br />Life is full of huge peaks and troughs. While Natasha and Phil were celebrating the happiest day of their lives in Surrey, a memorial service was being held in Lauderdale, Florida for Jamie. Hundreds of people were preparing to leave their families and travel to the other side of the world, not to return for many weeks. One man who wasn’t going with them this time was living the first day of the rest of his life.<br /><br />During the presentation of Tyler’s fellowship, Ron Dennis, CEO of the McLaren Group, and ironically a man on Jamie Connell’s wish list of people to meet, reminded the assembled group of one of TJ’s many profound, laconic statements.<br /><br />“Halitosis is better than no breath at all.”<br /></font><br /></div></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13632804502099543351noreply@blogger.com1