A Bit of Chivalry

On Saturday, the 19th of April, I was traveling up to Withernsea, to do my radio show. I happened to be walking from Victoria Tube Station, in London, to Victoria Coach Station, to get a bus to Hull. As I started to cross the road, I noticed an attractive, blond, young woman, struggling with several pieces of luggage. She had so much stuff, I figured she must be travelling with someone else. Normally, I don't get involved. Hey! I'm a New Yorker. I keep my head down and mind my own business. This time, something caused me to break the habit of a lifetime.
My inertia carried me beyond the girl. I was one quarter of the way across the road, past her, but still looking back at her. I wondered if she could be alone. I don't know why I did, but I turned back. Maybe it was because I was still smarting from the twenty-something, oriental woman giving me her seat, previously. In any case, I approached this blond and asked, "are you going to the coach station?" Her response was a bit confused and she wasn't on the right side of the road for it, but I worked out that the answer was, "yes." Unfortunately for her, she was planning to head in the wrong direction. Fortunately for her, I wasn't a mugger, rapist, con man, or murderer.
Victoria Coach station is a little confusing, as it's spread over three buildings. She was heading toward the building where mostly local buses depart from. She needed to head to the departures building, for the long-distance services. I happened to be headed to the same place. I pointed out where she needed to go, then asked, "would you like me to help you carry your bags?" Enthusiastically, she said yes. I took one of her biggest bags, with built in wheels, and another, smaller bag. I hung the smaller bag from the extended handle of the bigger one. I still had my own shoulder bag, plus a shopping bag full of newspapers and food. We set off to the departures building.
Her bag on wheels was heavier than I thought and I was struggling with all I had to contend with. She spoke with an American accent, so I asked where she was from. Alaska was the answer. "You're only the second person I have ever met from Alaska," I said. No wonder this chick was so trusting. She was from the wilderness. I learned that she was a student, spending a semester in Europe. Having come to Britain from Germany, she'd spent a week in London and was now on her way north, to some university I'd never heard of. As I struggled with her heavy bags, I asked, "you haven't got books in here, have you?" After all, she was a self-confessed student. She denied that the contents contained literary matter, so I asked, "why have you got so much stuff?" Innocently, she informed me that she'd been buying all sorts of things as she travelled across Europe. "Do yourself a favor," I suggested, "and send some of this stuff home, by courier, or something." I couldn't imagine her managing on her own, with this load.
"I thought of doing that," she said, "but when I asked my parents, they said to just keep it with me."
Her parents probably didn't want to be bothered with all of her junk. "You haven't figured it out, yet, huh? Don't ask your parents, just send it." She seemed a bit clueless. Then I found out that she was only seventeen. No wonder she didn't know what to do. I told her she was pretty brave, traveling around Europe and doing a semester abroad, at seventeen, all on her own. She was earlier for her bus than I was for mine, so we chatted for a while, in the departures lounge. She explained that she'd finished high school early, which explained why she was doing a university semester abroad, at such a young age. Obviously, she was brainy, if not worldly. Something paternalistic in me had taken over. She was a year younger than my evil ex-stepdaughter, the Black Princess, was now, and even more blond. I gave her tips on Britain and advice, plus invited her to tune in to my radio show. Eventually, other girls near to her age, fellow students, started turning up. I noticed her looking at them and realised that she wanted to get to know some of them. I said farewell and shuffled off to my gate. I felt satisfied that I had helped a very deserving person. What's wrong with me? Am I getting soft as I get older, or what?

How Old Does She Think I Am?

Last Wednesday, on the way home from my day job, I decided to take advantage of an accumulation of loyalty points and stop at a supermarket, to redeem some of them. It was my turn to buy toilet paper, for the house. Toilet paper is one of those items I can't get free, at work. With a family size pack running about £4, it seemed like the ideal time to cash in some points.
I stopped in the Sainsbury's in Camberley, before catching the train home. Spotting some vegetables marked down, I added some impulse items to my basket. When I was ready to check out, I was faced with one of those supermarket dilemmas. To my left was a very attractive, "black" female cashier, with no one in line. To my right, an ugly, "white," female cashier, equally idle. Which cashier should I choose? Cheekily, I asked the "black" gal, "which one of you should I go to?" Unimpressed, she suggested that I use the other woman. Despite her advice, I started putting my purchases on the "black" woman's conveyor belt. I had overcome a moment's hesitation, when the thought occurred to me that the ugly woman might be the better cashier. When it comes to picking checkout queues, beauty usually wins out, with me. If I must stand in a queue, I might as well have a pretty face to look at. I would come to regret my decision.
I'd found a real bargain in toilet paper. I selected a package of Sainsbury's own brand, which was sixteen rolls for the price of twelve. This was the largest package of loo roll I had ever purchased and me without a car. Fortunately, it came with a built-in handle. With my other purchases in a carrier bag and having saved £7.50 off a total bill of just over £8, I walked to the Camberley train station. I'd messed up my timing and just missed the train to Ascot. That left me with almost thirty minutes to wait for the next one. Sitting down to pass the time, I happened to start reviewing the receipt from my shopping. I have a tendency to look over my receipts from supermarkets, to check that I haven't been over-charged. Usually everything is fine, but this time, it wasn't. The pretty cashier had overcharged me by thirty pence! I contemplated going back. It would be a pain in the ass to walk back, with the things I was carrying: my black shoulder bag, my package of sixteen loo rolls, and my carrier bag of impulse purchases. Still, I had time to kill and I hate losing money unnecessarily. As I walked back to the store, it occurred to me that the ugly woman probably wouldn't have made the mistake. A lot of ugly women are good at their jobs, because they can't just coast through on their looks.
I managed to get my thirty pence back and still catch the next train to Ascot. Once in Ascot, I changed platforms and caught the first train towards Reading; a necessary step, if one is going to Bracknell. After arriving in Bracknell, I decided that I'd had enough of schlepping with all the things I was carrying. I decided to treat myself to a bus ride home, rather than the half-an-hour walk. When the 194 arrived at the bus station, it was a double-decker. I didn't feel like struggling with all my stuff to the upper deck, especially as I was only going three stops. However, because I was one of the last people on the bus, there were no more easily accessible seats on the lower level. I resigned myself to parking my packages in the area provided for luggage and stand. As the bus started off, a lovely, oriental, young woman, seated in the single seat nearest to me, asked if I wanted to sit down. Even though I said, "no," she got up anyway. I figured she must be getting off soon, so I took the vacated seat.
It felt good to be seated. I eyed my benefactor and she smiled at me, when we made eye contact. She was short and looked a little like Lucy Liu, only with a slightly darker complexion. As I sat looking her over, thinking she's somewhat attractive, I tried to decide what Asian country she might be from. She looked Chinese, but with the tanned coloring that is common amongst Thais and Nepalese. As I was enjoying the view of her long, dark hair, we passed the first couple of stops without her getting off. It suddenly occurred to me that she hadn't gotten up because she was getting off. She had deliberately vacated the seat so I could have it, like one would do for an elderly person. Looking at her and estimating her age to be in her early twenties, I thought, "how old does she think I am?" Here I had been, fantasizing over her, sexually, and she'd been treating me like an old age pensioner! The pleasure of getting to sit had turned into a sour taste in my mouth. I'm not even fifty yet, for Pete's sake!
The bus approached my stop, so I signaled that I wanted to get off. As I gathered my things, I noted that the young woman was still on board. Well, at least she could have the seat back. I slipped out the door, leaving my little, oriental fortune cookie on board. Oh, the humiliation! She thinks I am an old man. I walked home from the bus stop, with my bags, sixteen rolls of toilet paper, and my bruised pride. Should I stoop to coloring my hair to hide the grey? What price vanity?

TV Alert: Dawn Porter Gets Her Man

Tomorrow night, March 6th, Dawn porter's latest documentary, "Dawn Porter Gets Her Man," airs on BBC 3 at 9PM. As I participated in this project, I should be seen in the program. Don't miss it!

Which Witch?

Riding home on the bus, recently, I spotted a young woman getting on at one of the stops on the way out of Camberley. She looked to be in her early twenties, tall, with long dark hair, which contrasted with her pale skin. She wore a long black skirt, down to her ankles, black, high, wedge heeled, black boots, a black top and black jacket. The only thing on her not black was a purple bag, hanging off one shoulder. The bag was fabric, with a wiccan-like design woven into it. She reminded me of Winona Ryder in the film, "Beetlejuice," only taller. So, I wondered, is she a witch?
A couple of conventionally dressed girls on the bus kept snickering over the witchy girl. She ignored them and listened to music on her MP3. I found myself very attracted to the possible witch. Was she casting a spell over me? Ironically, recently, Steve Allen was speaking on his show on LBC radio, 97.3 FM, London, when he compared a woman to Morticia Addams, as if that was a negative. I quickly emailed Steve and let him know that I found Mortica very attractive, when I was a boy. Still do. Morticia always wore long black dresses, to the ankle, and had long dark hair, and pale skin. Before Steve read my email on the air, he read one from another guy, saying the same thing. So, I'm not the only man who's attracted by this look. I wonder how many other men are also bewitched by these charms?

Is Nando in Love?

As I was sitting in the lounge, tonight, eating dinner, Nando received a call on his mobile. It was the woman he's been seeing. Dare I say "his girlfriend?" So, of course, I listened to his side of the conversation. He was laying on the couch next to the one I was on, so it was almost impossible not to overhear. As I took fork fulls of beef and rice, I figured out that he was giving her directions to our house. He gave very detailed directions, mentioning almost every rock and tree between our street and the main road into town. Then it happened! Just before he hung up, he said, "love you." What????
That's something I'd never heard Nando say to a woman, before. I just had to say something about it, right? "So, it's 'love you,' now, is it?"
Nando grinned sheepishly. He excused it away as something he was saying in response to her saying it. So, was he just telling me that because he was embarrassed, or does he really not love this woman and is just telling her what she wants to hear? If he is just faking it, I feel bad for her. On the other hand, what if they get so serious that he moves in with her? What happens to me, then? I went through so much trouble to get Nando a place in this house. If he leaves, maybe I'll move to London. He seems so nonchalant about her, it's hard to imagine it's that serious.
To change the uncomfortable subject, I commented on what detailed instructions she seemed to require. Like many women, she's not strong in a directional sense. My evil ex-wife, the Black Queen, who was a sailor and a great helms woman, couldn't navigate her way out of a paper bag. Nando laughed at how unsure his girlfriend was over the directions. She would be driving over tomorrow. It will be her first time coming to our house. Sadly, I won't be here to meet her, as I will be in Withernsea for my weekly radio show.

Small Pricks

Women should stay away from small pricks. Well, at least women who are receiving in vitro fertilization (IVF) treatments. A study in the US has found that women on IVF are 37% less likely to get pregnant, if they have acupuncture. The surprising thing, to me, is that someone thought up a study like this. Imagine some scientists sitting around the table, during a coffee break, one day, when one of them shouts, "I know how we can get a grant! Let's do a study on the effects of acupuncture on the effectiveness of IVF!" Who paid for this study?
Speaking of getting pregnant, here in Britain, people seem to say a woman "falls" pregnant, or "fell pregnant," in the past tense. I didn't know falling was involved. When children ask, "mummy, where do babies come from?" do mothers say, "well, women fall over on their stomachs, then get a swelling from hitting the ground. Inside the swelling, a baby starts growing."
The confused child then says, "but I thought the storks brought them?"
Mother thinks on her feet, then adds, "well, scientists suspect that, while the woman is fallen over and a bit stunned, the stork lays an egg in the swelling, because they think it's a neat place to make a nest." The child responds by looking at his mother like she's a nut.
Another possibility is that when British women fall over, drunk, a man realizes they are in a fit state to give in to sex. Perhaps people used to say, "she fell and got pregnant." That became shortened, over time, to "she fell pregnant." Then the cynical side of me imagines that it comes from the expression, "falling in love." "Victoria fell in love, now she's pregnant." How romantic. Nah! I wonder if the scientists will do a follow-up study, to determine the effect of small pricks on "falling" pregnant, with women who aren't on IVF? There's another grant!

Death Proof

This past Saturday night, I went to see Quentin Tarantino's "Death Proof." Originally released in the USA as half of a double feature, entitled, "Grindhouse" (the other half coming from Robert Rodriguez), disappointing ticket sales for "Grindhouse" in the states prompted Tarantino to agree to the studio's suggestion that they be released separately. Thus, here in Europe, we have "Death Proof," on its own. This film is a tribute to 70's slasher and muscle car films. Having read a couple of reviews which alternated between mixed, half-hearted praise and downright panning, I think the European reviewers have it wrong. That's probably because they aren't as familiar with the style of films Tarantino is trying to emulate, possibly because they are too young. Also, being from Europe, they just might not be getting the "American" feel of this film. Those reviewers who had anything good to say about "Death Proof," seemed to focus on the car chase sequences. While those are good, I think the other parts of the film are also entertaining, just in a different way.
The film shows a character, known as Stuntman Mike, stalk two groups of sexy, young women. He uses a stunt car to kill and is brilliantly played by Kurt Russell. The majority of the film is spent getting to know the women, as we listen in to their conversations about sex and dating. I find it interesting that the protagonists in the last three films that Tarantino has done, are women. First, there was "Jackie Brown," then "Kill Bill (volumes I and II...Tarantino speaks of them as one film), and now "Death Proof." That's over half his filmography. Perhaps he finds women as fascinating as I do. Not only are the women in "Death Proof" all visually good looking, Tarantino equips them with stereotypical, Tarantino dialog. While one might be tempted, at first, to dismiss the dialog as the unrealistic fantasy of a male screenwriter, given the enormous difficulty in writing dialog for characters of the opposite gender to the writer's, my experience of listening to the podcasts of my good friend, Anjelika Jinxs (www.naivelondongirl.com ), leads me to conclude that some young women do actually talk this way. All through the film, I kept being reminded of Anjelika talking with her friend and co-presenter, Wanda. If you haven't checked out Anjelika's "Naive London Girl" podcast, do so. They are very "adult" in content, but also very funny. Back to "Death Proof," one reviewer actually complained that the women are all sexy and dressed in revealing outfits. Duh! I'm thinking he must be gay. Far from being a negative, I'd say that's a plus, especially for male viewers. None of the women in the film are size zero waifs. They are curvy, real women. One even has a little bit of a belly going on.
The crowning glory for "Death Proof," as far as I'm concerned, is an aspect that, so far as I've read, has been totally lost on the reviewers. The second half of the film follows Stuntman Mike's second group of potential victims. These girls are working on shooting a movie, but the plot line centers around stuntwoman turned actress, Zoe Bell, playing herself. Zoe has a compulsion to drive a 1970, white, Dodge Challenger and perform a stunt called, "ship's mast" with it. Why is that significant? Well, if you have to ask, then you, like the reviewers, is missing out on one of the best aspects of "Death Proof." A 1970, white, Dodge Challenger is the car from the film "Vanishing Point" (1971). The fact that Tarantino has Zoe, and another of the girls, being fans of that film was great. The girls even refer to "Vanishing Point" as one of the greatest movies ever made, in the dialog. I'd qualify that by saying, "the greatest car film ever made," but it is in my top five. I love that Tarantino is also into "Vanishing Point." For most of my life, I thought it was just me. If you see "Vanishing Point," it takes "Death Proof" to another level. Zoe Bell ends up on the hood (bonnet) of the speeding Challenger, during a car chase sequence with Stuntman Mike in another 70s era muscle car, a Dodge Charger. The action, here, is truly breathtaking and Tarantino is quick to point out that no CGI or sped up film techniques were used to make the sequence. The cars are real and are really being driven as fast as they seem. This beats the hell out of the fake looking stuff you get in "The Fast and the Furious" franchise.
"Death Proof" has a simple plot, as is typical of the types of films it's emulating. It's not Shakespeare, but great escapist entertainment. It was able to hearken me back to my youth, when I spent many an afternoon in a darkened cinema, enjoying thrilling car chases. Tarantino manages to wed that to my adult interest in women and bring the whole package into the noughties. I found a common bond with the film maker. Perhaps we are both products of the same era.

This Takes the Biscuit

Today, I worked on my first commercial. It was a TV advertisement for a magazine. I am excited about it for two reasons. First, it pays better than the film work I have been doing. About three times as much, so today was the best single day's pay I have ever had. Second, I should be seen in this commercial, given that there are only six of us in the scene, and it will be shown repeatedly, thus maximizing my public exposure.
I arrived early, which is good for me. As I was sitting waiting, a gorgeous actress walked in. She had a beautiful, full head of auburn hair, flowing down over her shoulders. Wearing a business suit, she also had a sizzling hot figure. I later learned her name is Carla and she's a TV presenter on Sky Channel 634. She's also a former dancer, which would explain the figure. For my sins, I got to sit next to her for the entire shoot. What's also impressive about Carla is that she's over thirty, but still looks gorgeous. That's one of the nice things about working in TV and films, you get to work with some stunningly beautiful women, sometimes.
The premise of the ad is that Carla and I, plus four others, are sitting around a table in a meeting room. We are all dressed like lawyers. At the head of the table is an empty chair. It's empty because the boss is not there. Instead of being in the meeting, he's off reading this magazine we are promoting. He can't put it down. We're all bored waiting and doing various things to pass the time. One woman is texting on her mobile phone. Another woman is doing a crossword puzzle, while a male colleague sits next to her, trying to chat her up. Carla is doodling on a pad. Originally, I was supposed to be rolling a biscuit (cookie for American readers) back and forth, across the table with a male colleague, opposite. After a couple of rehearsals, the director decided that instead, my colleague would be sleeping with his head on his hands. That left me and the biscuit. He asked me to play with it in some way. I decided to spin it, on edge, like a top, on the table. The director liked that idea and decided to go with it. Thus began the great biscuit challenge.
The director decided he wanted to end our shot on my spinning biscuit. The problem was to work it so the camera finished tracking back just as I spun the biscuit, but have all the action fit within the time allotted for this part of the commercial. We were shooting for a 30 second commercial and our scene was supposed to take 7 seconds. Coordinating the camera tracking, my spinning, and the 7 seconds, became very difficult. We did take after take. I finally lost count when we hit 40 and that's not counting the numerous rehearsals we did. Little bits and pieces of the scene kept being adjusted and re-adjusted. We had a female cinematographer, which was a first for me. The whole crew were great and a joy to work with. They got us water and fed us breakfast. When we finally wrapped, around 1PM, I was being teased about being typecast, forever more, as a biscuit spinner. Given that my spinning biscuit became such a central part of the scene, I feel fairly confident I will be seen in this commercial. I am looking forward to when I finally see it on TV.
Between takes, I spoke with Carla as much as possible. When I asked her where she lived, I thought she said "northward." So I guessed Honslow. To this, she replied, "northward," or so I thought. I tried Harrow, even Luton. Still, every time she would say, "northward," in an ever more exasperated voice. Then I figured out that she wasn't saying "northward," but "Northwood." I found that funny. Carla looked so good, I thought she should be doing bigger time stuff than this. I pictured her as a leading lady in some film. When I asked her if she wanted to do bigger acting projects, in the future, she replied in the negative. "I'm a better TV presenter than I am an actress," she explained. She just does the acting on the side, on her days off from TV presenting. In any case, she made my day. In what other line of work can you spend a day playing with biscuits and chatting to a gorgeous lady, and get paid for it?

Surrounded

The other day, on the bus coming home from work, I noticed that I was surrounded by beautiful, young women. Raising my head from trying to sleep, I spotted six beauties around me. I usually sit at the back of the bus, in the emergency exit row. This isn't because I expect to need to escape, but because I like the extra legroom available there. The emergency exit row is wider than all the others. Anyway, to my left, across the aisle, was a tall, leggy, brunette. In front of her were a couple of bouncy blondes. In front of me were a few more ladies, with varying shades of hair color, including a brunette with lovely blue eyes. I was the only man in the midst of all this young, taunt-skinned, femininity.
After a few stops, this tide of totally babalicious bounty began to ebb. In ones and twos, they each left the bus. Them just when I was resigning myself to going back to sleep, a hot blond in an aqua tunic got on, in Crowthorne. She looked to be a nurse or beautician, or something. Maybe a dental technician, as there is a dentist's office near that stop. When I was younger, my dentist was this kindly, old Jewish man, back in America. I'm of two minds about whether I would prefer a hot blond gal working on my mouth. Yeah, she looks great, but the downside is, she gets to see you at your worst. It's impossible to look cool when you are in the dentist's chair. In any case, this girl ignored me as completely as the other six did. I might as well go back to sleep.

Silver Lining

Yesterday, I reported how Gordon Brown becoming Prime Minister cast a dark cloud over Britain. Well, they say every dark cloud has a silver lining. In this case, the silver lining has to be Gordon's wife, Sarah Brown. I think she's very attractive, much better looking than Blair's wife, Cherie. In an ironic reversal of fortune, Blair is better looking than Brown, but Blair's wife isn't particularly good looking. While Brown isn't as good looking as Blair, but his wife is much hotter than Blair's is. Of course, this brings to mind an immediate question regarding the new Prime Minister. How'd he pull her? As Eddie Murphy said in his first film, "48 Hours," "the generosity of women never ceases to amaze me." It gives plain men everywhere hope. Of course Henry Kissinger said, "power is the ultimate aphrodisiac." That could explain a lot.

I'm Eating Cucumbers

Recently, I have begun eating cucumbers. Not on their own, but in salads. For practically 47 years, I have disliked cucumbers. Now, all of the sudden, I have started eating them. Okay, to be fair, I didn't try them for the vast majority of that time. You know how when you're a kid and you just decide you don't like stuff without trying it? It was one of those type of things. However, in my defence, when I first ate some cucumber, accidentally, I didn't like it. It was all cold and gave me the shivers. It seems, now, that I have developed a taste for them. The same thing happened with me and beer. One of my mother's boyfriends gave me a sip of beer, when I was little. I thought it tasted horrible! It was all bitter and stuff. I pretty much stayed away from beer until I was 17. Then, while I was attending Syracuse University, I gradually developed a taste for beer. At Syracuse, many of the parties included free beer from kegs. It seemed to be drink that, or nothing.
About 14 years ago, I started eating zucchini. Speaking of which, in Britain they call zucchini, "courgette." That surprised me, when I came over here, that they have different names for some food. We speak the same language, supposedly, in America and Britain, but we have so many different names for things. Back then, I was dating a woman who was older than me. One day, she cooked pasta for me with zucchini in a cheese sauce. It was another case of trying something I had never tried before. Maybe the moral of this story is that you shouldn't decide you don't like a food without trying it. Either that, or it's that women get me to do stuff. The cucumber thing was caused by a woman, too. I was visiting a female friend of mine and she offered me lunch, or dinner, or something. Let's just say she offered me a meal. The meal included a salad. She put cucumbers in it, as she didn't know I didn't like them. The British seem mad about cucumbers. We go through a shit load of them at the restaurant. The salad was all tossed and covered in salad dressing, so I didn't spot the cucumber until I bit into a piece. It wasn't that bad. Now, I'm buying them myself.
I have stated buying lettuce, cucumbers, peppers, and making my own salad. I've been dieting for a few weeks and I decided to cut down on cole slaw, replacing it with fresh prepared salad. So, I wonder if cucumbers are good for you? They are green and stuff. I asked the sous chef, at work, if cucumbers are good for you. He said they were, because they are green and all green vegetables are good for you. I pointed out that green potatoes are not good for you. Trust me to rain on his parade. I've lost 14 pounds over the past month and I feel better. My friend, Tom, thinks cutting out the cole slaw will help my weight loss. I'm not so sure. Today, I got really freaky-deaky and bought some radishes to slice for my salads. Okay, they were marked down. This seems another point of compatibility I have with Jodie Marsh. She's started eating healthy, lately, too. Sadly, I don't think she's noticing all these points of compatibility we have. I wonder what will be the next food I start eating?

Little Scotland Annie

Yesterday was Annie's birthday. Who's Annie? She's this woman who works where I work. She mans one of the two coffee bars that our restaurant provides, out in the office complex. I have no idea how old Annie is, although, judging by the wrinkles, I would guess she's over 60. She is so pretty, I always tell her how pretty she looks. She says it brightens her day. She has short, blond hair and sparkling eyes, sitting behind delicate, rimless eyeglasses. She's so thin, I might even say too thin. While she may not have voluptuous curves, her delightful, pixie face is so lovely, I don't usually notice her boyish frame.
Not only does Annie look lovely, she's got such an innocent, gentle way about her. I have never seen her angry, or even heard her utter a cross word. She also has a gentle, Scottish accent, probably because she's from Scotland. It's not one of these harsh Scottish accents that some people have, but caresses the ear, like a gentle sea breeze on a summer day. Why is it that people from Scotland talk so funny? You'd think they'd notice that they speak differently from the rest of the people in Britain. It can be endearing on certain people, like Scotty, from "Star Trek," or on Annie herself. On others, not so, particularly on the men. I notice that I keep coming across older Scottish women who look very beautiful. What is it about Scottish women that they can look so good in their later years, while many other British women look like they are coming apart at the seams? Annie's husband is fortunate to have a wife who's still such a delight.

Dick On the Rise

See, if I write about you, good things happen to you. The police woman I wrote about on Saturday (see "What a Dick!" 17 February, 2007), has been promoted. Cressida Dick has now been made Deputy Assistant Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police, in London, which is one of the highest positions in the department. She's probably an over-achiever, trying to make up for her unfortunate name. Dick's rise is not without controversy, though. It turns out that she was the commander in charge of the operation that resulted in the fatal shooting of Jean Charles de Menezes, in July, 2005. Jean Charles' family are not happy about Miss Dick's promotion. Perhaps they just don't like Dick. Whenever a Dick goes up, someone complains. Cressida is welcome to contact me for an interview. She could let me put her positive side forward. Perhaps she would bring along her handcuffs. She might frisk me. Would she be able to find my concealed weapon?

What a Dick!

The Metropolitan Police, in London, decided to deploy armed officers onto the streets of South London, from Thursday, following a string of shootings. Three teen aged boys have been shot dead over the past couple of weeks. One 21-year-old man has been stabbed to death during this same period. I predict that this high profile police presence won't ultimately stop the violence, because these murders are taking place when no police are around. I think it's all for show, to make the tax payers think something is being done. If the ruling gang really wanted to do something about this problem, they'd repeal victim disarmament laws. The most shocking thing in all of this is that the Commander of the Met's Specialist Crime Directorate is a woman named Cressida Dick. While I have no problem with her first name, even though it sounds like she was named after a car, "Dick" has got to be one of the most unflattering names for a woman. Women in uniform can be a turn on, although she has a bit of a butch air about her. I wonder if she's single?