all around in a circle and nowhere to go
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Posted:Jul 22, 2007 6:54 am
Last Updated:Jul 30, 2007 2:31 am
16500 Views
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You get days like that, don’t you? You think you’ve got the whole day figured and it just doesn’t work out that way. I really fancied the idea of doing a bit of flying today. I’d head out to the countryside, meet up with a few friends, soar for an hour or two and then maybe a beer in a country pub, a bit of a chat about this and that and head off home.
Simple.
So I pull up at the local supermarket, collect a sandwich and a bottle of coke, pay up and find that there’s a traffic warden who’s just beaten me to my car (I thought the single yellow line was Mondays to Fridays, 8 a.m. to 6 p.m.) He sees me coming and I see his fingers racing over the keys on his instant ticket dispenser. Now it used to be that you could negotiate/ explain/grovel/ promise you’d learned a lesson in life and never, never again commit such a mortal sin as parking on a yellow line (even though the road was practically empty and straight and wide enough to land a light aircraft, even allowing for the monstrous intrusion of my vehicle). No more, I’m afraid. Since performativity entered virtually every walk of life humanity goes out of the window. Why, I’m a nice guy. I ought to be let off and I’ll be a parking saint for at least the next twelve months. So please don’t punish me ‒ it’s unnecessary.
Honest!
Hah! No chance!
I’m another notch on the electronic tally that will show that this traffic warden is going to reach his target. Jeez! It’s eat out there. I’m in a game of raw survival. Him predator, me prey, and this time I’m the little fishy on the outside of the shoal.
I look at him helplessly. Yes his fingers tippy-tapped the keys before I could get into the car and drive off to freedom.
“You’ve got a ticket,” he said, stating the obvious, as the little slip comes out of the bottom of his hand-held machine, looking a little like those credit card readers waiters have in restaurants. Both consume money.
A thousand sarcastic comments come to mind, and I know he’s heard them all before. Who’d want to do a job being a traffic warden? I guess there’s the satisfaction that you’re keeping the traffic flowing ‒ at least as far as the next roadworks that are six months overdue because the very same council who pay him also are responsible for the traffic snarl-ups as a result of poor strategic planning, so the same stretch of road is dug up and refilled for each service that’s being modernised ‒ you know, water, sewerage, gas, electricity, telecommunications sorta stuff, and all these modernisations are going on at much the same time. It’s something that really bugs me, because it’s the same strategic planners who want to introduce a congestion charging system to this part of London, and it really suits their purpose to piss drivers off ‒ so much easier than improving public transport in London……
But I digress.
“You’ve got a ticket,” he said.
“You know, there’s quite a few things I really would love to say to you,” I replied. “But I won’t”
Sour grapes are such bad karma.
“Thank you,” he said.
“No problem. There’s no need to put the ticket in the plastic envelope.”
He hands the ticket and plastic envelope to me separately.
“It’s freepost,” he said in a conciliatory way. “And if you pay within 14 days you don’t have to pay the full amount.”
So I get thirty pence off for the postage. Wow! I just love the semantics. I’m being stiffed for fifty quid and if I don’t pay up I get stiffed for a hundred, or am I getting a fifty percent discount for being a good boy and paying up quick? Woo hoo! Think of the money I’ve saved!
Paris sweetie ‒ if you’re reading this I’m going to pay up.
Then he takes a digital pic of my number plate, along with the parking time plate, and I drive off a little sorry that I’m fifty quid worse off …….. that’s fifteen pints of beer in London. I’ve bought bigger rounds before, so I chalk it down to experience and drive off.
Stopping for petrol I get a text message that the nearest site to me has a howling gale, but in the opinion of the sender it is easing. So I drive there and see no one on the hill. There is still a howling gale and it doesn’t look as though it’s going to ease for at least a couple of hours. I don’t even stop and head down to Newhaven, about seventy miles away.
It’s been very stormy in the UK recently and I’m watching weather systems rolling through. Anyone who flies will tell you about their fascination with the weather. Even allowing for the fact that I’m a Brit and we’re supposed to always talk about the weather I go beyond that. Watching weather is something I do more and more. Important. Some clouds will help you to get high in the sky, others will suck you in and spit you out again, like the German woman paraglider pilot who was sucked to 32,000 feet by a cumulonimbus cloud (or cu-nimb, as we call them) before being spat out. She landed forty miles away from where she had taken off suffering from frostbite and dazed to the point of near unconsciousness. A Chinese guy was sucked into the same cloud and died. So I’m looking at the clouds and what they’re telling me. In the distance I can see giant cu-nimbs and rain streaks below, but the further south I go the clearer the sky becomes and my spirits begin to rise. I know the tide is receding and flying from Newhaven to Brighton and back along the cliffs is looking like a possibility. The wind is still strong, but you can fly in slightly stronger wind at coastal sites because the air is usually less gusty, and therefore less turbulent.
This is good, I say to myself and listen to the car radio. It’s Classic fm at the Movies and these strong soundtrack themes seem to go with my driving. Life is good. I might still get my late afternoon/ early summer evening flight in.
But when I get to Newhaven there’s no one there. Only a strong wind that’s too westerly to catch the cliffs and give lift. The weather forecast said south south west. It was wrong. Longshore. No good.
So I take a stroll along the beach. It’s a wonderful beach at Newhaven, even though it is a pebble beach. There are always boats and ships out there in the channel. It’s a peaceful summer evening and it’s good to simply be there.
Then I think, hey it might have eased off in Kent. So I drive back ……… thinking I’m taking a short cut, but these winding English country lanes seem to go on forever. There’s a jazz programme on the radio. I really get into it.
The early evening sun is streaming through. I’m enjoying the drive and soaking up the countryside. I even pass a warning sign by the roadside on the road from Hastings to London. There’s something like the pic I’ve put up here and a plate saying “Naughty Gnomes.”
I think it’s a place that sells garden gnomes, but the sign made me smile.
All those naughty gnomes.
But it’s taken me forever to get back to the Kent flying site. It’s now beginning to be real evening and something in me is no longer inclined to go to the trouble of unpacking and then repacking all my equipment at this time, so I head off home. I still don’t know if the wind dropped. I’ve kinda entered a “road zone”, of driving, countryside and the radio.
It’s a programme about Syd Barrett of the Pink Floyd. It’s a tragic tale of a real genius. How he wrote Arnold Layne, a song about a crazy transvestite who steals women's clothes, which was released as a single way back in the ‘60s. The radio stations wouldn’t play it at first, but it became a hit. Always creative, pushing the boundaries and wickedly witty, he became a heavy drug user and became seriously mentally ill. Eventually the band did gigs without him, even making excuses that they were off for a packet of cigarettes, so he wasn’t upset.
“Have you got my ciggies?” Syd would ask when they got back.
And damn! A Syd Barrett song has got stuck in my brain. And it’s still there.
Bike.
Remember it?
I've got a bike
You can ride it if you like
It's got a basket
A bell that rings
And things to make it look good
I'd give it to you if I could
But I borrowed it
You're the kind of girl that fits in with my world
I'll give you anything
Everything if you want things
I've got a cloak
It's a bit of a joke
There's a tear up the front
It's red and black
I've had it for months
If you think it could look good
Then I guess it should
You're the kind of girl that fits in with my world
I'll give you anything
Everything if you want things
I know a mouse
And he hasn't got a house
I don't know why
I call him Gerald
He's getting rather old
But he's a good mouse
You're the kind of girl that fits in with my world
I'll give you anything
Everything if you want things
I've got a clan of gingerbread men
Here a man
There a man
Lots of gingerbread men
Take a couple if you wish
They're on the dish
You're the kind of girl that fits in with my world
I'll give you anything
Everything if you want things
I know a room full of musical tunes
Some rhyme
Some ching
Most of them are clockwork
Let's go into the other room and make them work
I’d sing it to you if I could! Maybe that would exorcise it.
Syd Barrett died almost exactly a year ago, aged 60, but he had spent the last thirty years of his life as a recluse.
That is sad, and puts a fifty quid parking ticket into perspective.
Oh, and I’ve a theory about why these gnomes are naughty.
Look at the pic.
Now you know what they say about a gnome’s shoe size……… 
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Yes! There really are the good guys here.....
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Posted:Jul 21, 2007 2:32 am
Last Updated:Jul 30, 2007 2:32 am
16445 Views
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I’ve been very busy lately ‒ hardly any time at all to keep up with the blog, but hopefully I’ll be able to give it a bit more attention. I think with the passage of time you begin to take a more measured view of this friendly site. What was once mysterious becomes familiar and I guess you become a little wise to it all. Like the macrocosm of life in general it is very much what you make of it.
One of things I’ve learned is not to be too surprised by the big old slice of life that can be found on this site. It’s a bit like wandering through the souk in Marrakech ‒ or at least how I remember it to be all of thirty years ago……. the good, the bad, the ugly and worse, milling about in close proximity, occasionally encountering each other in what seems like random proximity.
At its very worst this site does give host to the barely more evolved than pondlife ‒ the denizens of the website. The crass, inept, socially incompetent who upset, annoy and unsettle. But it’s disingenuous to assume that everyone’s like that, simply because they choose to visit a part of the world wide web that’s sexually frank. We’re all party to that or we wouldn’t be reading each other’s blogs……
Q.E.D. folks! Q…..E…...D……..
Because there are those who are fine people. If there are denizens of the depths of A.F.F. then there are certainly angels up there in the heights. And maybe I’m biased, but I would say that Blogland has more than its fair share. I could name a whole host of fellow bloggers, but there was one post recently that really struck me as portraying real friendship. Real humanity. And if you haven’t visited Unca Mud before do so now by clicking on this link……
[post 945657] by [blog mudlnthru]
Now isn’t today just a little better just by reading it?
There are good people here, and Unca is most certainly one of them.
Kudos to you, friend!
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Touchdown
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Posted:Jul 15, 2007 5:36 am
Last Updated:Jul 30, 2007 2:43 am
16286 Views
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Flying o’er
the landscape
of your soul
My course set
by the contours
of your being
Might I
touch down?
I will
land softly
© warmandsexy52 2007
Picture taken in the French Alps, maybe about 10 minutes before joining this flyer in the sky. There had been a late snowfall on the peaks, which was beautiful to look at, even though the thermals would have been stronger without it. |
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Oh Wow!
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Posted:Jul 8, 2007 4:08 am
Last Updated:Jul 30, 2007 3:11 am
16223 Views
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I miss the joy
Of being a .
Of being free
And acting wild.
Confined within
This adult frame.
To be consistent,
Be the same,
Meet expectations,
Play the game.
And yet I hear
Such playful sounds
Within my mind -
Yes!
Joy abounds!
And reaching deep
Within
Right now,
I hold it close ….
Woohoo!
Oh Wow!
© warmandsexy52 2007
There is a delightful post written by wickedeasy, a wonderful blogger whose blog always has so much depth and so many layers to it, called dance like no one is watching, and her imagery really triggered this poem. |
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Mismatch
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Posted:Jul 3, 2007 11:30 pm
Last Updated:Jul 8, 2007 2:21 am
16164 Views
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She’s on this friendly site tonight
Searching for her Mr Right,
Yet all she seems to find somehow
Are men looking for Ms Right Now!
© warmandsexy52 2007 |
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5
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Something Naughty to Smile About
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Posted:Jul 1, 2007 6:23 am
Last Updated:Jul 30, 2007 3:28 am
16386 Views
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it’s so funny
hunny bunny
sugar’s sweet
and syrup’s runny
if I kiss you
on your chin
will you give me
one big grin?
will it give you
giggly fits
if I kiss you on
your tits,
or even on your
naughty bits?
I do not want you
to be sad
I really want you
to be glad ‒
so that is why
I’m being bad!
if you give me
loads of smiles
I will travel
miles and miles
just to demonstrate
to you
I am good
at smiling too
© warmandsexy52 2007
written as a comment on [post 924921] by my dear friend and fellow blogger [blog heavenly_] ..... thank you for inspiring a naughty rhyme ...... and for making me (at least) smile.  |
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let's smell
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Posted:Jun 30, 2007 2:43 am
Last Updated:Jul 29, 2007 3:06 pm
16320 Views
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Now we know each other well
Let’s indulge our sense of smell.
Come Let’s have an odour feast,
Sniff me now, you sexy beast.
Let me savour with my nose
Sweet scent that rises from your toes,
Smell your hair and smell your neck,
In your armpits let me check
Aromas that will drive me crazy,
Giddy-headed ‒ oh so hazy
With vapours rising from the skin,
Inhaling deeply drawing in
The subtle pheromonal essence -
What delight! Oh what quintessence!
Nose buried between your breasts,
Knowing what your scent suggests.
Then, while hearing your deep sighs,
To savour you between your thighs.
Your moist rich pussy, fully faced,
As sense of smell turns into taste.
My tip of tongue plays with your treasure
And sinks into the deepest pleasure.
© warmandsexy52 2007
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Indelible
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Posted:Jun 24, 2007 11:26 am
Last Updated:Jul 10, 2007 11:16 pm
16340 Views
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My dearest friend
there is no end
to that bond
that ties
beyond
all time and
space
and binds us
in a special
place
That light
you bring
when my soul’s
dark
leaves in me
your unique
mark
that is
dear heart
indelible
Ah, my dearest friend
© warmandsexy52 2007
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5
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Sex Currency
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Posted:Jun 20, 2007 6:15 pm
Last Updated:Jul 8, 2007 4:12 am
16275 Views
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I try to make sure I fly at least once a fortnight through all seasons. One reason is that I really have a passion about getting my boots off the ground and even if conditions are marginal, so I’m scooting around a few feet above the hillside, it’s better than not flying at all. The other reason is that, having taken up what can be a dangerous sport (we have a saying that free-flying is perfectly safe ‒ so long as you appreciate how dangerous it is!) it is important to stay current. Get rusty, having not flown for a little while, and somehow your judgement gets blunted ‒ you miss the best lift, forget points of technique that you might have spent months honing, miscalculate landing approaches, especially with hilltops and strong wind and make bad decisions in flight. Losing currency means that the less flying you do the more dangerous any flight becomes and the more likelihood there is of a free ride in the air ambulance, and since I guess they’ll make you lie down you don’t even get a view out of the window. Bummer, huh?
Flying in light marginal conditions at the weekend I got thinking about this and it dawned on me that currency is important elsewhere too. I’ve got to confess that it’s a while since I’ve played anything challenging on the guitar, so I’d be happy to accompany a singalong, but anything challenging like a classical piece I’d be out of practice with and pretty rusty as a result.
Then I got thinking about weekend drivers. I do feel safer surrounded by the cut and thrust of urban drivers driving to work every day than I do with folks who hit the road on Saturdays and Sundays only, with half a mind on the road and half on the mobile phone, gossing with the passenger or simply daydreaming.
In fact, the more I thought about it the more important currency became. All sorts of walks of life it’s important to stay in practice.
So then I thought what about currency with sex? Does having sex often make you a better lover? Should we have sex with many partners rather than just one, so we become more varied in our techniques and therefore more exciting and stimulating lovers? If we don’t have sex for a while do we become so rusty that actually sex is a bit of an anticlimax once it happens?
OMG! Imagine having an anticlimax! An orgasm in reverse! For a bloke that could mean a dick on suction. Ooooh! Me toes are tinglin’ at the very thought!
But I digress………
Is good sex really much more about how you feel about who you are with? And maybe all this technique stuff doesn’t matter that much. And that regardless of technical competence if the person doesn’t float your boat it’s still not particularly good sex.
A bit like the friend of mine when I was a student who played guitar very competently from a technical point of view, but was too mechanical ‒ just lacked that feeling that made a tune move your soul.
And maybe being sex-starved makes you hungrier for sex, so the sex is all-consuming. Grrrrrr! Worth waiting for. Yum! Yum! Loads of torrid passion …….. mmmmmmmmm!
So I’m not so sure on this one. We all know what bad sex is, but good sex has got to be more than simply “being good at it.” I guess there’s got to be that xxx factor.
So what do you think ……………..?
Do you reckon practice makes perfect?
Have you ever come close to perfection? (read that as you will!)
What makes you really hungry?
What do you make a point of staying current in?
And are you good at finding the xxx factor, or is it more likely to be zzz?
Pic shows a fake 300 euro sex banknote, which was being successfully passed off in Germany recently, along with a 600 euro note with hunky guys on it, despite the fact that all other large denomination notes are 100, 200 and 500 euros. All I can say is mein gott, sacre bleu, mama mia! Have they all gone sex crazy in the erozone …….. er eurozone? |
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Ghost
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Posted:Jun 10, 2007 3:10 am
Last Updated:Jun 30, 2007 2:33 am
16074 Views
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your last gift to me
was the ghost
of your passion
echoing
through
my
senses
echoing
through
my
senses
echoing
through
my
senses
reverberating
in skin
deep flesh
and groin
to make
sense
insensible
as beyond intent
i touch myself
© warmandsexy52 2007
Inspired by [post 891175] by [blog loveslilies] - I was touched by the combination of poignancy and erotica in loves beautifully crafted words. |
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5
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Doc Warm's Wonder Cure
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Posted:Jun 8, 2007 12:50 pm
Last Updated:Jun 20, 2007 6:19 pm
13735 Views
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To lovely ladies in this nation
Suffering from that deep frustration:
Worry not - you can be sure
Of Doc Warm’s marvellous wonder cure.
Of course you know you can suppose
I’ll ask you to remove your clothes.
You might be anxious ‒ tingly nerves:
No problem ‒ I’m the best of pervs.
Though it might seem that I’m obsessional,
I will behave almost professional.
Mmmmmmm baby ‒ you look really good,
I hope I’m not misunderstood,
Doc Warm’s cure works ‒ that I can vouch,
Now come on lie down on the couch.
First of all let me explain -
I’ll ply you with the best champagne.
Then, unusual it might seem,
I’ll add to you the finest cream
And lick it off ‒ first from your tits,
Then down to all your naughty bits.
Feel my tongue now tease and burrow
Deep within your hot moist furrow.
Not only is my treatment free
But I’ll let you do this to me.
Every problem, every woe
Just watch it vanish ‒ see it go.
Then you’ll be told to open wide
And I will test you deep inside,
Some say the hands are best at touch
Frankly I don’t go with that much,
And once tried I think you’ll agree
With Doc Warm's bringadictomy.
Don’t worry if I make you moan.
Remember ‒ you are not alone.
The more you moan, and shout and squeal
The better you [and I] will feel.
And getting rid of all that stress,
We’ll both then shout out, “Yes, yes, yessssssss!!!!!!”
So there it is ‒ Doc Warm’s fine cure
But you’ll need to make it endure -
Hooray! Doc Warm’s cure has succeeded,
Hmmmmmmmm!  .... further treatment will be needed.
© warmandsexy52 2007
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To link to this blog (warmandsexy52) use [blog warmandsexy52] in your messages.
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