#Mad4Plaid

By strange coincidence, came home from work, logged on, saw various #Mad4Plaid tweets celebrating the first day of fall - Autumn, please. Walked into the kitchen and, by pure coincidence, what was my Bandree wearing:
She had no knowledge of Mad for Plaid but, by pure coincidence, had dressed for the day.

Security Alert

Sorry for the lull in posts recently, things have been busy and the imagination not very fertile.

This is the time for holidays and, like everyone else, we have been doing our share of travelling. Returning from one such trip, my Bandree triggered a metal detector arch and was asked to step aside by the smartly uniformed female security officer. Regular readers will remember that we recently had six labia rings inserted and, ever since, she had been anxious about how to deal with exactly the dillema she now found herself in. I, together with some of our offspring who are unaware of this jewelry, waited politely.

Leaning closer to the security girl, she whispered "Piercings". The girl couldn't hear her and asked her to speak up. B, aware of the proximity of a bored male security man, tried to point discreetly down her front and said "Its intimate, piercings".

"Ah no love" replied the smart female figure of authority, "sure I'm covered in them and it doesn't set them off. It must be your mobile phone, go on."

So, look at the people around you. You just can't tell, can you?

Cutting Switches

"Will you come and help me cut some nice long flexible ones".

With those words, my Bandree enticed me out of our weekend cottage last weekend, lopper in hand. As we headed down the track, she was eyeing young ash saplings but rejecting them "Too short", "not straight enough", "Not long enough", "Not flexible enough".

Eventually we came on a grove of tall willow on the bank of a stream. "Those look good" she cried "come here and help". Fortunately, I kept my balance and stayed out of the stream. When we had a good collection on the track, we started to strip off the leaves, twigs and small branches, to leave two or three feet of whippy wood, about the thickness of my little finger.

Once finished, we each hefted half the heap and started to walk back to our cottage. Once there, B subjected herself to the final, painful, ritual. Deftly, each rod was flexed and carefully applied on top of its earlier predecessors. Notwithstanding the pain inflicted by the sharp blackthorn spikes, my B wove the wattles into the hedge, creating a few more inches of the fence which will ultimately provide a little more privacy in the evening sun catching corner of our country cottage garden (meadow?, field?).